Orns of a tactician
by silberstreif
Summary: Prowl is logical, loyal and lonely. Most see in him an emotionless tactician, who does not feel anything as he sends soldiers to their death. Jazz may discover that there is more to the SIC.
1. Isolation

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformer or any of the fictional characters described below. This is just for entertaiment.

Taralynden and Starfire201: Thank you for wonderful work as betas!

Isolation

Laughter could be heard outside of the rec room of Autobot headquarters in Iacon. He knew that one could meet mechs at any time of the orn there, trying to forget the outer world and its gruesome war. Energon flowed freely, friends met and some, few became more than that...

Prowl sped up and walked past the door. This was not his area; he had duties which needed to be performed. The new data from Polyhex was more than worrying and their spies at Decepticon base D89/2 had probably been exposed. Not to mention the rumours about a new kind of weapon from Shockwave.

On the other hand, when had Shockwave ever not had a new weapon?

The corridors around him were empty. No laughter any more. Even his steps were silenced by an expensive carbonate floor. Here was the place they worked and determined the fate of the Autobots. In front of a high door at the end of the white corridor, he stopped. He had reached his destination, his office, the very centre of the tactical department.

Lamps flared up as he stepped into the room and immersed everything in a bright, hard light. They had been applied in such a way that the furniture left no shadows at all. A security measure against assassins.

But today everything seemed to be okay. Without further waste of time, he began with his work.

Orns later, his duties at the Department of Science led him back the same way. The laughter felt like a slap in the face after all the silence. Though this time it subsided and he could hear voices.

"...and then I just looked at the 'con and said: 'Hey, ever heard of tactical advantage?'"

His steps paused. He knew that voice; it belonged to his student, Trailbreaker. He hadn't known that the young mech followed such recreational activities. Especially not now, as the tactical department was swamped with work! Had Trailbreaker no understanding of responsibility?

But no, he had seen how utterly exhausted his student was. Not only physically, but mentally. Had it not been he himself who sent Trailbreaker home? It was not his concern how his student found balance again, as long as he appeared in optimal constitution at work again.

Autobot civil rights, privileges of the superior, paragraph 34 b.

The Department of Science awaited his report.

Breems later, he returned to his own office just to see his chair taken.

"Jazz", he greeted coolly. "What can I do for you?"

With a grin the saboteur leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk. "Hey, come on, can't I visit my friends now and then?"

"We are not friends."

The grin vanished as if it had never been there. "Of course not. I'm here because of my two agents. What's up with the rescue mission?"

He had not forgotten this mission request, had calculated everything multiple times. "They have no critical data and we don't know their exact whereabouts or situation. A rescue is not recommended."

"You really just want to leave them there? They are being tortured and you know it!" Jazz's visor hid his optics, but even without them Prowl could see the rage of his colleague.

"Yes. But we would risk too much."

Jazz leaped to his feet. "Risk? It's an insecure outpost. They wouldn't even realize what was happening before it's too late!"

Maybe. But certainly they had increased their guards after they had found those two spies. Additionally, the possibility of a trap or an ambush existed. And how had their cover been leaked anyway? Too many unknowns to risk the lives of Autobots for it, especially as it was unknown if they were still alive or not. No, it wasn't worth it.

"I will not give permission for a rescue mission, Jazz."

Without Prowl's approval, without tactical backing, Prime would never agree to such a mission. The saboteur clenched his hands.

"Are your comrades nothing to you? Do you even know their names?"

Of course he knew their names, history and skills, just as with every other 'bot he ever gave a mission. "Moonblast and Barrel."

Against Prowl's expectations, Jazz only got angrier. His face showed his disgust.

"You know them and still you are willing to let them get tortured? Your spark must have extinguished a long time ago!"

An insult which he had heard often before... nevertheless he answered with more emphasis than needed: "I can't risk more lives."

"Sure." Jazz went around the desk and stopped in front of the tactician. "If it helps your conscience to believe that."

"It is the truth."

But the saboteur didn't seem to be listening any more. Silently, without deigning to look at Prowl, he left the room. Only the sharp hiss of the door destroyed the painful silence.

Prowl could not stop the sagging of his doorwings. Moonblast and Barrel, two additional names on a list already too long.

He sat down at his desk and continued with his work.

Orns later, he discovered that the energon distributor on his floor was broken. Without a doubt had one of the resident pranksters thought it hilarious to replace all energon with a green and bubbly substance. For better or worse, he would have to get his fuel from the rec room.

This time, he heard not only laughter, but music and many different voices, too. He hesitated, it seems like a party had just started. However, he needed energon and his tank signalled alarming levels. It would be illogical not to go in.

He stepped through the doors and into the rec room. It was as if he had stepped into a different world. Coloured lights cut through the twilight of the room, turning everything softer and less real. The room was stuffed with Autobots of which one after another saw him. The conversations slowly died out.

He could feel their optics as he walked through the crowd which divided silently in front of him. Huffer, Slicer, Kup, Grindor... No one looked into his optics. No one spoke to him. Lonely floated the beat of the music, but the party was frozen.

Silently, he took his energon cube and went back to the entrance.

No friendly gesture in this sea of Autobots. Prowl knew, he was an invader into their small, fragile world of peace and oblivion. He was unwanted.

And still, just once he wanted to be a part of the crowd and to forget...

The door closed behind him and as if the ban was lifted, conversations started anew.

… to forget that it was he who decided with calculations, facts and recommendations who lived and died. But for the other Autobots he was nothing more than a walking memory of all lost comrades, of daily missions which bore his signature and the war in general.

On the way back he met Jazz, who was apparently on this way to the party. Normally they would greet each other, exchange a few friendly words, but this time Prowl was ignored. Lost in thought he gazed after the saboteur.

Finally he forced himself to move on, overly aware deep down that he was missing the party of the vorn and probably Prime himself was invited.

Back in his office he read the newest information which had come in. Among the reports was one of a small Autobot outpost. Two corpses had been found, identification was under way.

Prowl didn't wait for results and took two forms with the header "Death Entry" from the lowest drawer. Carefully he wrote the names in and searched for the addresses of relatives:

"With our deepest regret we have to inform you..."

Someone had to do it.


	2. Calculation

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformer or any of the fictional characters described below. This is just for entertaiment.

Taralynden and Starfire201: Again, thank you both for your hard work.

All of you: Thank you, for your overwhelming response. Never thought that I would get so many reviews, alerts and favorites.

Chapters: 2/6 (I feel it growing... )

Calculation

When Prowl entered the room, he noted in annoyance that he was the first to arrive even though the meeting was supposed to begin in two klicks. It seemed that his colleagues would be late once again.

Instead of wasting the time, he took his normal place at the right where Prime would sit and began to check his data. While alone each piece may seem insignificant, together they painted a very different picture. The correlation of this probability program showed a significant chance of an enemy troop movement involving more than 300 Decepticons. This was a force which was large enough to attack a Autobot stronghold.

During his 852nd calculation of possible targets, Red Alert entered the room.

"Good morning, Prowl."

"Good morning." He put his datapads aside. "Did you get the required security data for all bases in quadrants Delta-34 and Zeta-11?"

Red Alert looked at him irritated. "Of course. And I checked them for security gaps, reviewed the last logs about hacker attacks and spoke with the officers in charge while pretending to do a regular security check."

Prowl almost smiled. He liked working with the Security Director, one of the few Autobots who shared his work ethic.

"Very good," he praised him and meant it.

His subordinate was surprised for a moment, but seemed pleased and began to talk about a new security system he was developing. It was a good system, designed to secure data bases and information in a base even under a direct data hack.

One by one Ratchet, Perceptor and Ultra Magnus arrived. They took no part in the discussion of improved security against data hacks in personal quarters and just sat down.

Prowl couldn't understand their lack of interest. In these times security was paramount and while he supposed that his tactical department was suffering the most under enemy attacks, Soundwave had tried to get into other data bases as well. They were lucky that Red Alert was on their side in this war.

Exactly at the moment the meeting should begin, the door opened and Prime entered. Behind him came his bodyguard, friend and director of the weapons arsenal, Ironhide, and also Jazz who greeted everyone but Prowl with a smile.

"Sorry," said Prime. "Jazz came to me with urgent news. Everyone, take a seat and let's begin now." He remained standing at the head of the table. A holo-picture of two bots appeared at its center. "This is Moonblaster and Barrel, two agents we lost contact with and whose deactivated bodies were identified an orn ago. Jazz, would you please take over from here?"

"With pleasure, Prime." Jazz waved at the picture. "To make a long story short, they were busted, Prowl denied a rescue mission, they died." That he hadn't yet forgiven Prowl was obvious to all present. The tactician forced himself not to react.

"But we still don't know why their cover was blown and that's the problem. Other agents report that cleansings are being performed. And they're not picky; if they suspect someone they torture and execute them immediately." He made a face. "That's the situation. We think that the Decepticons are planning something and want to kill all our spies for that reason. Only what, I don't have a clue."

"May I interrupt?" said Prowl. "My data confirms this. There are hints of Decepticon troop movements in multiple quadrants. They're inconspicuous, but if you add them all together, we may be dealing with around 300 Decepticons."

This was serious news. Prime looked from one lieutenant to another. He was clearly worried. "Do you already have an idea what the target could be?"

Jazz shrugged, "Something they need flyers for."

That eliminated many bases. Prowl started his calculations anew. When Prime looked at him, he stopped for a moment, and concluded with the data available:

"Quadrants Delta-34 and Zeta-11 seem to be most probable at the moment. Red Alert has already examined security there."

Jazz looked angrily at the security director, who flinched, then at Prowl: "Hey, if you already know so much, why don't you send the data over? Or do you want to let more of my people die?"

The accusation hurt, nevertheless he did his best to answer professionally: "My data are only probabilities and this meeting was scheduled anyway."

"Okay," Ultra Magnus interrupted the beginning dispute. "Red Alert, what did you find out?"

Not much, as it turned out. Some possible targets appeared to be true fortresses, while others where appallingly vulnerable. Those at the table decided quickly that Red Alert should implement enhanced security measures in the worst ones. The Security Director only sighed as he accepted the new work.

This discussion was succeeded by the evaluation of the medical care in the quadrants, which Ratchet described as insufficient. Prowl upgraded his assessment automatically into "adequate, but improvable".

Thereupon Ironhide and Perceptor presented a short overview about the weaponry of the bases, followed by Ultra Magnus who consented to send several task forces into the quadrants. Something, the tactician strongly supported.

"All the same, we need more info," Jazz said energetically. "Let me send my people in."

"Into a high-risk-infiltration," Prowl remarked dryly.

The saboteur gave him a scathing look. "Yes. Not every mission can be as safe as you are behind your desk."

Prime hesitated. "Are those missions really necessary?"

"Yes!", his TIC shouted.

"Yes," Prowl supported. He observed amused, that Jazz looked completely surprised for a nanosecond. "As was already said, more data is required."

"So now you see reason?", Jazz said, but was ignored by everyone in the room for the sake of peace.

"Then I suppose it has to be," said Optimus Prime and looked sternly at his lieutenants. „But none of our agents are to go into the field without tactical backing."

"Gotcha."

"Affirmative, Prime."

"Good. Are there any other points on today's agenda?"

Perceptor looked at his list. "After a careful analysis of the last fifteen damage reports in the Science Departement and a valuation on site, I estimate that Wheeljack needs new lab equipment – again."

"And a new processor, while he's renovating," snarled Ratchet.

After the meeting was finished and the others began leaving, Prowl invited the saboteur into his office to coordinate their forces further. But the chief of Intelligence scrutinized him coldly from head to toe and remained silent, until Prowl's doorwings jerked nervously.

"I don't understand you, Prowl. First you refuse a rescue mission during which I could have gathered the necessary information, then you support nearly the same mission in front of Prime. Are you developing a conscience or what?"

This time Prowl was the surprised one. "The probabilities didn't justify a rescue operation."

"But they justify these infiltrations which are at least as dangerous?" Jazz moved a step towards him, until he was standing directly in front of him. His visor prevented Prowl from seeing any of his emotions.

Instinctively he tried to back away, but was stopped when he felt the wall just behing him. "The circumstances have changed. A potential large-scale Decepticon attack threatens considerably more Autobots."

"And Moonblaster and Barrel weren't in danger? Didn't they deserve at least an attempt to save them?", the Intelligence chief asked quietly.

Prowl froze. He hadn't been able to give his approval. Not at the price of other lives, other equally good and loyal Autobots. He still could not. But Jazz's words rang true as well. They touched on the dream he was fighting and preserving the lives for.

He averted his eyes from the visor that only showed his own reflection. A feeling, as burning hot as a ball of molten iron, spread in his Spark. Finally, his own convictions let him mutter the condemning words:

"They did."

The saboteur gazed at him for a few more nanoseconds, then backed off and turned around.

"I'll see you in your office in five breems."

In the now empty meeting room Prowl sank into his chair again. On the table lay his calculations, columns and lines, figures and facts, determining what could be and what not. Just why did it now seem to be so insufficient?


	3. Demotion

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any of its characters.

Thank you to all reviewers. It's fantastic to read your thoughts and opinions. ^^ I can only hope you'll continue to do so.

And, of course, thank you to taralynden and Starfire201 who both took the time to beta this chapter.

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><p>Demotion<p>

To his right lay datapads neatly stacked; to his left was a data storage device, salvaged out of the deactivated body of an agent less than an orn ago. Mechs on both sides of the war had given their spark for it, just so it found its way on his desk.

And even though he knew that, Prowl could only look at the empty chair in front of his desk, which had been filled by Jazz until a few klicks ago.

The first of their meetings was awkward at best, a disaster at worst. In the three meetings afterwards a routine of a sort set in, that was shaped by icy politeness. Even Prowl didn't need to convert hundreds of facts into a statistic, in order to know that their cooperation was a farce. Their departments didn't get in each other's way; the agents received their tactical plans, yes, but that was only the absolute minimum. There was no exchange of ideas, no comparison of conjectures and opinions. Even when Prowl raised things Jazz had criticised without hesitation in the past, the saboteur kept quiet.

After four meetings Prowl could openly admit it to himself, that he missed the Jazz from before. The Jazz, who sometimes brought energon cubes to their conversations, who talked about funny situations, who treated him like any other mech.

Did their disagreement really change this much for Jazz? Prowl didn't understand it, even though he comprehended his moral critique in all its facets.

He tried to be friendly, putting a chair into his office and attempting to engage in small talk. His attempts failed. He couldn't manage to speak about any other topic besides work. He had no friends, didn't know anything about the newest rumours and was clueless about another of Jazz' interests, music.

At the third meeting he finally asked about the other agents. Partly, because he was really concerned about them and their mission to constitute information for him. Partly, because he wanted to show that every Autobot was important to him.

Jazz' answer was short:

"They do their work. We have no losses yet. Do you need specific information?"

No, thank you, he didn't.

At today's meeting he wanted to talk openly to Jazz. It failed the moment as the saboteur stormed into the office and presented the data storage together with the message that more operatives had died. This time not through Prowl's decision, but for the sake of information he had demanded.

Rarely had the tactician felt as helpless as the moment he saw the saboteur's withdrawn face. Again agents had died; again Prowl had been the trigger. Again had Jazz sacrificed his mechs on account of Prowl's tactical arguments.

All he could do was to accept the device with a quiet, sparkfelt "thank you". Jazz then turned and left the tactical office as if on the run.

All that remained was only the tiny data storage device, stolen out of the deepest areas of the Decepticons. It was round and grey, essentially utterly unremarkable. With trepidation he took it in hand, turned it, once, twice.

Were these data really worth the lost soldiers?

He connected the memory device with his tactical office computer. In front of him holograms of dataunits started to hover in the air, glyphs and graphics, maps and long text files traversed through the room. An organized analysis would take orns, maybe longer. Time, he didn't have.

But the work would distract him at least.

With growing dread, he realized that he was reading the confirmation of his worst fears. Hundreds of Decepticon soldiers were marching, nearly every seeker and triple changer was put into standby position, or had already been relocated to garrisons near Typhern. Far worse though were the hints of Shockwave's new weapon; its testing phase was near completion and the absolute certainty of victory could be read between the lines of the messages of high-ranking Decepticons.

His first projections portrayed the grim picture of a major offensive with no holds barred. The battle would outclass everything of the last few vorns. They would have to act quickly and massively, if they wanted to keep Typhern.

Swiftly he sent an encrypted message with the highest priority to every officer in Iacon and to Prime: Meeting, Urgency level One, at the end of this orn, compulsory attendance.

With this done, he turned to figures of their own troops and began to calculate requirements of the force the Autobots would need. The list was long, hundreds of names and lives he would send into battle.

Only a few breems into this work the internal comm signalled a message. "Red Alert to Senior Battle Tactician Prowl."

Distracted, he stopped his calculations. Red Alert never disturbed him for nothing. "Prowl here. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. But I for you. Smokescreen is playing Black Jack in the rec room as we speak."

For a moment Prowl had the irrational desire to disconnect from the internal communication system, to leave his office and to take all vacation that had accumulated over long vorns of war. Obviously nothing could go right this orn.

"Thank you. I will take care of it."

"Good." Without a further word Red Alert terminated the connection

Why couldn't Smokescreen just abandon his gambling? Prowl had prohibited it, had disciplined him and yet... A gambling addicted Junior Tactician was worthless. According to Autobot civil rights he should demote Smokescreen on suspicion alone. But they already had so few tacticians that every loss would tear a hole, that couldn't be filled any more. That was the only reason why he had been able to defend his student until now, but the excuses had had worn out. Red Alert's evidence on tape was enough for the sergeants, who thought the root of all evil in the Autobot army was to be found in the tactical offices, to force a demotion. And with his new data he knew where a freshly demoted tactician would be sent: Typhern.

Someone who played with lives wouldn't find mercy even in Optimus Prime's optics. But Prowl believed in Smokescreen, in his potential and that he would never risk other Autobots for a gamble. He had to do something.

* * *

><p>Only a few metres away, around a corner, was the busy Corridor Twelve, one of three main arterial roads of Iacon. It connected apartment blocks Eight to Eleven with headquarters, the hospital and the workshop area with which many unofficial shops were affiliated.<p>

Prowl seldom if ever left headquarters. It offered the Autobot High command everything it could need and was designed as an independent system, in order to serve as a last option of retreat. A possibility for which Prowl worked tirelessly to avoid. A welcomed side effect was that bots like Prowl, who were high-risk targets, received the best security possible.

Still, only half an orn after the emergency meeting with Prime and the other officers he stood here. At the edge of Iacon, in a narrow, twisting back alley of Corridor Twelve, that ended in front of a grey, blank door.

The tactician was all too aware, that this door was one of the few to be able to keep up with the security systems of his own office. He didn't doubt for an astrosecond, that he had been noticed a long time ago and was monitored since then. Perhaps even from the moment he had left headquarters on. He knocked.

Soundlessly the door glided open and he entered. Behind him the door closed instantly. The room reminded him vaguely of the rec room in headquarters. Several seating accommodations were spread seemingly haphazardly; however if analysed they formed cosy corners to talk and worked just as effectively as superb shields against enemy attacks. Doors led away, deeper into the secret department. At the moment the room was empty, except for one single person, who lay completely relaxed across an armchair.

"A rare guest," greeted the mech coolly.

That was true. Prowl was one of the few outsiders, who knew about the existence of this hideout, but he hadn't been here before. Normally only two kinds of mechs entered these facilities: Members of Special Operations and Decepticons, who were never seen again.

"Thank you, for letting me in, Jazz." It was an act of faith, a first step to his goal. This was Jazz's territory, just as the tactical offices were Prowl's.

The saboteur made a casual hand movement, as if to dismiss the issue. "Had to. If you dare to leave HQ, than it must be important."

His intonation left no doubt, that it better was important. Prowl hesitated. He could still go with his pride intact. For a moment his doorwings fluttered, then he pulled himself together.

"The importance is debatable," he confessed. Better be truthful, direct, than to enter mental games. "May I sit down next to you? I've brought energon cubes."

Jazz froze for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, it's all free."

Free, because the room had probably been cleared only klicks before he knocked.

He took the armchair at the right of the saboteur. When he took the cubes out, Jazz watched every single movement. Suddenly Prowl asked himself, if Jazz trusted him enough to drink unsampled energon that Prowl had provided.

"It's normal Energon, nothing special. I didn't know what you like."

"Normal is good." But Jazz didn't move to take his cube from the table. "So, what's so bad, that you don't even want to talk about in front of the others at the meeting?"

Prowl wished himself back into his own office. But he had to do this, for Smokescreen's sake. "I need a personal favour from you."

"From me?" The surprise was evident.

"Yes."

Jazz scrutinized him silently for a klick and moved smoothly into a normal posture on the armchair. "That's a first," he said dryly. "I hope you know me better than to ask for something illegal."

Prowl gave him an angry look. "I want a favour, not a contract kill."

"Just saying." Jazz leaned back. "What else could our chief tactician need so desperately, that he wants a favour from me?"

"Do you know my student, Smokescreen?"

"Praxian, intelligent, best friend of Tracks, a few disciplinary issues, good gambler?"

"Yes. The last point is a problem." Prowl grasped one energon cube and clutched it with both hands. It was bitter to talk about his own failure. "I tried to discourage him from gambling, unsuccessfully. Today he played Black Jack in the rec room and I can't ignore it any longer. There is too much evidence, too high a risk for addiction. If I can't find a solution fast, I have to suspend him from all his duties and demote him."

Jazz' visor got darker. "That would be his death sentence."

Prowl nodded sorrowfully. Praxians were envied for their doorwings, as much they were a disadvantage on the battlefield. They were excellent targets for all firearms and a few hits at them could put a Praxian into stasis, or even deactivate him through high energon loss. If he demoted Smokescreen in the next orns, he would send a relatively battle inexperienced Praxian directly to the front lines of Typhern.

"A death sentence in all but the name."

"And how exactly can I of all people help you?"

"Smokescreen is unfit to work further as a regular tactician." It hurt to say this about his own student. "But his file says he was considered for Spec Ops, before he became a tactician."

"You want to make him into a spy?", asked Jazz with incredulity.

"No." Smokescreen knew too many secrets to ever be spy. "I want to reassign him as the personal tactician of Spec Ops. He has the needed abilities as a tactician, further, his sociable behaviour, his inclination to take risks and his basic psychological knowledge fit with your department."

Even now Smokescreen took over half of the tactical planning for secret missions upon himself, though Prowl counter-checked every single draft. Beneath Jazz' leadership more eyes would watch his private episodes and would intervene if necessary. But above all Smokescreen's main reason for his gambling was the desire to prove his worth, just because he wasn't as good as Prowl or even the more inexperienced Trailbreaker in many areas.

Those were the positive consequences which induced him to take this drastic step. He could however see from the tense face of Jazz, that he thought about the other side of this deal, too:

"That's all good and fine, but you would lose your student." The spy leant forward, supported himself with one hand on the table, until he was face to face with Prowl. He only withstood with difficulty the desire to back away. "More still, Smokescreen would be within my authority and you wouldn't see a single Spec Ops mission from this moment on. You wouldn't know what I do, you couldn't control us..."

They wouldn't work together on small missions any more. With the loss of power and control came the unspoken risk, that there wouldn't be a single mech outside of Spec Ops to ensure that they kept the moral obligations of being Autobots. Of course, this was only the theory.

"Please, I know that I never saw anything you didn't want me to see."

A fleeting, bitter grin, then Jazz moved away from him. Prowl had the remote feeling that he had won something, but couldn't say what.

"And you would owe me a favour," added the saboteur as if Prowl had never said anything.

"Yes."

Jazz looked as if he had turned into a helicopter. "Smokescreen really means something to you."

"Of course. He is my student." And Prowl took care of his students.

Jazz shook his head, seemingly amused, although his words were far away from such an emotion: "You surprise me. Obviously you think sometimes beyond your loved statistics."

A banter to entice an emotional reaction out of Prowl and it didn't fail to have its desired effect. Too fresh was the vocalised insult a few orns ago. The doorwings raised aggressively, he answered sharply:

"I am not a sparkless drone, Jazz, whatever else you like to believe."

For the first time in their conversation Jazz broke optic contact. "I never believed that." Not an apology, but a step into a new direction. "If it had been Smokescreen instead of one of my agents, would the decision have stayed the same?"

"Yes. Personal emotions are never a factor in my tactical decisions." But afterwards he would probably have visited the party and would have gotten drunk until he reached oblivion, despite the looks, a missing invitation and all the rumours such an action would create.

It was quiet for a moment, then, slowly, Jazz smiled. "Send Smokescreen to me later. If his addiction to gambling isn't treatable, I'll find something else for him to do."

Relief flooded Prowl. He did it. Smokescreen was safe. "Thank you."

The agent stood, and shrugged indifferently. "A favour is a favour."

Of course. And in his business favours were the only currency that counted. A favour from the Senior Battle Tactician himself was probably too good to even think about a refusal. And that had been exactly the reason why Prowl had offered it. It was a single favour, but they both knew that this favour would save or destroy lives some orn in the future. He could only hope that Jazz would use it wisely.

Prowl bid him goodbye and was driving on Corridor Twelve klicks later. On the now empty table stood two energoncubes still untouched .


	4. Consideration

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers in any way.

Thank you to my betas, taralynden and Starfire201 as well. Your effort makes this story possible.

Thank you to all that are reading and enjoying this stories. Your reviews are awesome.

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><p>4. Consideration<p>

Prowl hurried through the empty, dark corridors of the Autobots' third garrison in Iacon. Most soldiers were already on their way to Typhern to strengthen the armed forces stationed there. According to his calculations the tanks of the Third Garrison were indispensable for the frontlines if it came to a major offensive. Only they had the sheer firepower and the required armor to pressure the Decepticon advance to a standstill in the right places and to drive them back.

Therefore it was alarming that with the troops Delta and Phie a whole quarter of the garrison was still here. He should have received confirmation of their departure a full orn ago. Instead he had gotten nothing. When he inquired as to why, Commandant Fireshot explained testily that both troops were held back on Ironhide's explicit order.

Just why had Ironhide disregarded his orders? Didn't he understand how much was at stake? Usually he could trust Ironhide on a professional level and maybe this was the reason Prowl felt so angry about this.

But maybe the anger was due to the fact that the tactician had worked for nearly eight orns without any rest. Elita-One's refusal to send one of her own tacticians from the peacezones for support added only to it.

Forcefully he entered the observation deck on which the surveillance sensors last recorded Ironhide.

It was quiet here, Prowl suddenly realized. No machines, no other Autobots, no weaponfire reached is audial sensors. He paused while his optics adapted to the twilight. The deck seemed empty, he was alone. No one who wished to hear his opinion, no one who doubted his plans, no one who expected a miracle only to give him the blame when it didn't come.

Although rationally he knew that Ironhide was here somewhere, he relaxed marginally for the first time in orns. The varying warnings that appeared were just one symptom of his exhaustion. When did he drink his last energon cube? He couldn't remember.

Tiredly, he corrected his schedule. Refuelling now came first, before his reports, meetings and other endless trifles. It was illogical to risk working in a sub-optimal condition any longer.

His heavy steps echoed across the room as he searched for the soldier. Finally, far ahead on the other side he discovered Ironhide's silhouette against the dark city, but the mech didn't turn around. Instead he kept looking down onto the area formerly known as the 'Square of Solidarity' as if he were some ancient memorial or statue.

The square beneath the dome was brightly illuminated. The light was even enough to wrest a few of the grand towers and bridges of Iacon from the dark. Prowl gave them a short wistful glance, thankful deep shadows concealed the gaping wounds in the architecture. All too easily could he assign names and memories long past to every single crater. Since then, the towers had been abandoned and Iacon had transformed into a military base, that had mostly retreated into the underground for protection. The only thing that was still on the surface, were the garrisons and the automatic artillery. They formed the first line of defence in case of attack.

"Ironhide," he greeted tersely as he stopped behind the bot. "Is it true, that you kept the troops Delta and Phie of the Third Garrison behind?"

The weapon master finally showed that he had noticed Prowl and turned just as far as needed to look into his face. "Yeah, that ah did," he said without a hint of an apology.

"And what in Primus name were you thinking?", snarled Prowl as all the tensions and worries of the last orns found their outlet. "I planned with them, trusted them to protect the rear of Front 21 in Typhern! But to do this they need to be in Typhern and not here! You're risking the lives of all of us!"

Ironhide clenched his hands, as his own temper flared. "Ah ain't risking anything! Typhern or here, there is no diff'rence. That lot ar' slagging recruits!"

So, that was Ironhide's problem. The troops Delta and Phie consisted of formerly neutrals who fled to Iacon, after the plains south of the sea of rust were contaminated. Of the twenty Deca-Orn standard weapons training under Ironhide's watch they had completed just about two-thirds of it. Nevertheless, the Autobots needed them and their abilities.

"Recruits, that should be on their way to Typher by now ."

"Just ta die there for nothing!"

As if that was not the bald truth for all their soldiers in the end. Prowl shuttered his optics for a moment and brought his own feelings under control. Emotions didn't help here. Primus help him, he had to deal with this problem, then have an Energoncube and get a few klicks recharge...

"Never for nothing, Ironhide. And they are only secondary reserve."

"For the frontlines!", accused the weaponmaster furiously.

His doorwings sagged a little. "Yes. They are soldiers."

"Slag it, Prowl!" The fist hit the translucent quartzose shield with a loud boom. The younger mech flinched, and nearly stepped back. "Look at them! They ain't ready. They are too young!"

Unsettled by Ironhide's uncharacteristic behaviour and a bit intimidated, Prowl followed the order. Beneath them trained different soldiers together, shooting at targets, and practising transforming to have no gaps in their defense. They were good, but not as good as the rest of the Third Garrison, their tank elite.

Prowl had already known that. He evaluated their progress in training and he had been the one who decided that they were ready for their first battle. But in all the chaos he hadn't had the time to read their personal information. With growing horror, he realized what really disturbed the old soldier – none of the training recruits were completely upgraded into their final frame that marked them as adults.

Too young. Too young to kill. Too young for this war. Maybe too young to survive at the frontlines.

Ironhide saw his dismay with satisfaction. "Ya didn't know, eh?"

"No." He should have read the personal information. But the new reports about the installed defense lines in Typhern had come in and needed to be analysed. "Ironhide... I can't change the plans any more. They have progressed too far. All other qualified troops are too far away or have already different jobs." He couldn't take his optics from the younglings beneath. "I'm sorry."

He would send half children into battle, worse, to the frontlines. He didn't look up. He didn't want to see the helpless anger and betrayal on Ironhide's face, as he – again – went against every moral code.

"Tz, of course ya are." The acidness burned.

But instead of fulfilling Prowl's expectations and to burst into a blind rage came a severe silence, in which both simply stood next to each other and watched the recruits. They joked with each other, laughed and two of them even tried to prank a superior, if Prowl correctly interpreted their intentions with the green paint.

"If we don't send them, what happens?" Ironhide finally asked with a rough voice that could barely restrain his emotions.

He knew the data by spark, had calculated it again and again, had corrected and adjusted it to every detail he had with near obsession. "There is a chance of one in ten that the Decepticons will break through Segment 21 of our flank. If that happens, without these troops nothing would stop them reaching the very core of Typhern."

"They would win." And raze the city to the ground, kill all the citizens and kidnap the sparklings to reprogram them into loyal Decepticons.

"Yes."

"Slag," cursed Ironhide.

Prowl noticed with relief that Ironhide's rage seemed to be cooling down, just to be replaced with sorrow. As Autobots they had to consider every life as equally precious, but war forced them to weigh spark against spark, friends against strangers, near-adults against sparklings.

For a moment he was grateful that his own two students, Smokescreen and Trailbreaker, rarely went directly into a battle. Tacticians worked in the background. Tacticians, though, were those who were obligated to render hard decisions, despite all of their own moral and feelings, too. When he spoke, he tried to sound as neutral as possible:

"If you give the order now, their delay will only have minimal consequences."

Prowl always calculated with buffer time, if possible. A precaution, that had paid off more than once.

"Ya really cold as ice, aren't ya?", said Ironhide bitterly. Briefly he shuttered his optics, a sign of internal communication. "They will depart in eight breems. Now ah can only hope they return."

A problem solved, a worry less. "Thank you."

Beneath them the mood had changed abruptly. The laughter and jokes had vanished, instead the previous recruits collected the weapons. The soldiers had gotten their marching orders.

"Forget it. If Prime trusts ya, ah should do the same."

So simple, so plain. So typically Ironhide. Prowl couldn't suppress the smile, just as little as he could deny the warm feeling that bloomed deep within.

However, Ironhide hadn't quite finished:

"But we aren't blind, ya know? We still see if something isn't right, and things between ya and Jazz aren't."

Was it that obvious? Prowl's doorwings twitched, otherwise he showed no reaction. He knew only too well, that Ironhide wasn't someone who realized these things on his own and who wanted to talk with the mechs involved. That meant, Optimus Prime must have sent him. A very considerate action; after all, a hearing with Prime himself wouldn't improve anything, except the rumour mill.

"We work well together."

"And otherwise?" Prowl's silence was enough of an answer. "Ah know, that ya aren't the most empathetic mech and he can be more stubborn than a cyberslug, but at least try."

"We do. Some mechs just aren't compatible."

"Could be," the soldier admitted. "But Jazz and ya... together ya have the greatest successes. And that's the reason why Prime wants to send ya ta takeover the coordination of the defenses in Typhern." He grinned. "So ya better play nice with each other."

Taken aback, the tactician just stared at Ironhide. "Jazz and I? Together?", he asked unbelieving.

The old mech nodded.

With a small groan, Prowl covered his optics. Of all mechs, Jazz. He could already feel his future processor pains. "Primus... Prime really likes to make my life more complicated."

Next to him Ironhide began to laugh.

* * *

><p>No Jazz this chapter, because he's busy. ;) But don't worry, he'll be in the next chapter.<p> 


	5. Precaution

Again, a heartfelt "thank you" to taralynden and Starfire201. Without them, this story wouldn't be possible.

Furthermore, a "thank you" to all reviewers. Everytime I read a review, it's a small revelation that there is really someone out there who likes what I write. So "thank you", for that wonderful feeling.

**Precaution**

The ponderous door of the ancient chrome tower, which housed the council hall and core of the administration system, fell shut behind Prowl. The dull sound roared briefly through the dark street canyons of Typhern, then gradually died out. The youngest and weakest inhabitants had already fled into safe back country or into one of the many bunkers, while every mech fit for action had been drafted into the Autobot army. Only some stubborn rebels and the town's councillors, who insisted on taking part in the city's defence, persevered. Typhern was a sinister, silent moloch, waiting for the inevitable.

Prowl glanced over the deepest shadows of Chrome Square out of which phantomlike his bodyguards appeared. They were tall, had no striking colours or physical characteristics and were heavily armed. They formed a loose circle around him and waited quietly, permanently scanning the surroundings for suspicious signs. On the roofs snipers were in position. But all seemed peaceful, or Prowl would have been informed immediately.

He finally broke away from his memories of the just aborted negotiations and transformed. A few klicks afterwards, the convoy raced over empty highspeedpaths, always towards city walls.

Slowly the worries and thoughts of the tactician settled down into a fragile, quiet peace. Speeding down the old and well-crafted streets, taking turns at maximum speed and not braking for anything gave him a sense of freedom, he was seldom able to indulge in. Of course, the speed was necessary and time precious. But for a moment he was nearly able to forget it all.

If he was truthful, he liked Typhern better since most people had left it. The citizens expectations of a miraculous rescue, the anger when he dashed that hope, the following fear and desperation... It had been suffocating.

Now, all he had to do was to drive as fast as possible, which he did gladly.

On a longer straight track, one bodyguard suddenly swerved out, accelerating until he was nose to nose with the tactician. Tension momentarily rippled through the convoy, but quickly subsided. Prowl already had a notion who this could be. Confirmation came when he received a ping on his most secured and secret frequency.

"Jazz," he greeted tersely as his peace vanished. "What is the news?"

"A nice 'hello' to you, too... Whatever... The Decepticons are moving forward and gathering in the north. Your team thinks they'll attack in half an orn." The chief of the Black Ops team spoke rushed, between the words worry and urgency could be heard. "Ah, yes, and Smokey wants you out of Typhern last orn. Even with my people, I can't guarantee your safety any more."

His people? Alarmed, Prowl broadcast an identity ping to the guards. Only Autobot identifications came back, but no designations, troop names or position in the army. These weren't regular soldiers, but a special operation troop of Jazz's detachment. The spy really must fear for the worst, when he used his own people.

"I see. Thank you for your troubles."

A short, forced laugh. "Just doing my job. But what about you? How went negotiations?"

With a heavy spark, he recalled those long, frustrating orns during which he had realized, why Optimus Prime in wise foresight had dispatched two of his highest-ranked officers to Typhern: the city council was corrupt and power-hungry. While Jazz took over organising the army in the background, Prowl tried to make them see reason - and failed. Ultimately, he had left today's meeting early, resigned to the fact that his attendance had no positive effect. Gloomily he conveyed the bad news.

"They didn't change their opinion and still demand that it's their right to control the Autobot army as long as it is used to protect their town."

An angry huff of the engine next to him, was nearly the only sound other than the wind as they drove across the high bridge. Beneath them sprawled the skyscrapers and interlaced levels of Typhern.

"Those rusty bolts of cleaning drones! Only Prime has the right to command the army and we were appointed by him. Will they never catch on?"

"They already do," answered Prowl soberly. He had asked himself exactly the same question after the first negotiation. "But they don't care. The councillors are using Typhern and its inhabitants as leverage to try and influence our decision."

"Just say how it is: they have taken this town as a hostage," growled the saboteur. "My agents report that their plan is to stir up a riot. They just have to limit the access to the energon and blame us. And of course, Typhern's people trust and believe them."

It was a nightmarish scenario for any tactician: a battle not just against external enemies, but internal, against your own people, too. No army in the universe was prepared for this, a bloody defeat was inevitable. Prowl's battle computer nearly overclocked with all the hasty calculations and endless possibilities. With every result he got more nauseous.

"We can't let this happen."

"Exactly my opinion," replied Jazz. "We have to anticipate them."

"How?" Prowl doubted, but deep in his spark hoped, that the other saw solution, he himself couldn't discover.

A longer pause was the only hint that Jazz was preparing his answer thoroughly. "They risk their own town, the army that protects them and demand power, they have no right to. To me, that bunch aren't Autobots any more and I will treat them as such."

His spark plummeted and appalled, he slowed down for a moment. "You want to kill them!"

"Yes," was the cold answer.

Didn't the spy understand, how many laws and moralities he was violating? While accelerating again, Prowl hissed: "They are high-ranking Autobot politicians! Their assassination contradicts the Autobot-Code."

"And? Nobody has to know anything, and please, don't claim you've never acted against the Code before."

Memories flashed through his cortex, only a few orns old. Young, too young, recruits, who as troops Delta and Phi, fulfilled their duty. And precisely those recruits were now in double danger thanks to the councillors. He shoved the guilt aside.

"It's still murder."

For a short moment the city wall could be seen between the houses. They were soon there.

"It's still war," echoed Jazz cynically. "And our honoured councillors intend to hand over this town with open gates."

"I know!" But assassination between Autobots couldn't, mustn't be the right answer.

Steeply descended the street and with a roar, the convoy disappeared into a tunnel, which was illuminated by green emergency lighting. Flickering light flitted over their metallic surfaces. None of the 'bots said anything. With every metre they covered, they lost more valuable time.

Prowl tried desperately to find a better solution.

Even if they could overtake the energon distribution, urban riots would happen and the Autobots would lose trust, something they couldn't risk. Only in the bunkers were the younglings safe and they needed the citizens as soldiers on the battlefield. Further negotiations were ruled out. He didn't believe that they would get anywhere and the tactician himself was too big a target to stay in town any longer. He had to withdraw behind the front lines and retake coordination of the troops. His absence had been painfully noticed. Jazz, on the other hand, was officially not even in town!

Not matter how he looked at it, there would be dead and injured bots. All he could do was to choose, between a big risk and a comparably small sacrifice. Between horrible possibilities and certain murder.

In the distance appeared the end of the tunnel, which was directly in front of the town's gates. Time was up. They had to come to a decision. Now.

"So?", asked the chief of the Black Ops very quietly. "Do you have a better idea?"

For a short moment, morality and reason waged war against each other, then he did, what logic dictated him to. As ever.

"No," he admitted with the horrible feeling of having failed. They passed through the shadows of the tunnel and were in the open again. "You have a free hand."

"Good." The single word cut as deep as an energon dagger. "Otherwise, maybe it would have gone ugly."

Without another word, the spy turned left and drifted into a narrow side street. An astrosecond later, he vanished from Prowl's sight.

The convoy rushed on, through gigantic gates, out into the barren plain. Behind them, the gates closed them off from the city. Nobody could get into or leave by the official way any more. The Praxian accelerated and left Typhern far behind. He wanted to arrive at the secret tactical base as fast as possible to catch up with his neglected work. Plans needed a finishing touch according to new data that had kept incoming during his diplomatic duties. A group meeting with his subordinates was necessary, too.

Suddenly a flash brightened up the area, followed by a loud thunder. Prowl slammed on the brakes, he and the others transformed and looked back with quiet horror. A hot blast wave hit them. In the distance, the chrome tower, the town's pride, staggered agonisingly slowly to earth, ripped apart over and over by more explosions. The ground itself trembled as the silver colossus hit it and shattered into thousands of pieces.

Abruptly, Radio frequencies awoke to life. Panic-fuelled voices were calmed, those confused were informed about an unexpected Decepticon attack, aggressive ones called for revenge. Many turned to their superiors. Quickly, Prowl was confronted with frantic enquiries for further orders.

But the tactician kept quiet and and looked frozen at the new silhouette of Typhern. The doorwings on his back trembled. The timing was wrong. When Jazz suggested the assassination, the bombs had already been in place. Had the master spy really waited for his opinion? Or would he have activated them anyway? His last sentence hinted for the latter. A nasty suspicion crept upon Prowl. Did Jazz manipulate him, so that Prowl couldn't report him to Optimus Prime, because he was part of the crime?

Bitterly, he realized that he had given his consent anyway. The first dead in Typhern, the first civil victims, which officially were under his protection, had died at Autobot hand. Indirectly by his own hand.

And for the first time, he wasn't sure, if it had been necessary.

Prowl choked.


	6. Annihilation

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers, Prowl or anything recognizable.

Beta: Starfire201 and taralynden

* * *

><p>6. Annihilation<p>

Prowl's hand swept almost tenderly across the dark, humming computer terminals in the small room of the mobile, tactical operations centre, before he walked over to one of the four berths. Two were already occupied by unresponsive mechs, heavily linked up into the mainframe. Only an occasional twitch showed that they were indeed awake and working. The fourth berth, normally reserved for his student, would remain empty.

Once, he had led battles from Iacon; however, 30 vorns ago Decepticons created an interference field across the whole planet, making his highly secret and encrypted transmissions, where every astrosecond made a notable difference, impossible. At first, he had been exasperated about the new necessity to regularly leave Iacon and with it his tactical mainframe, but then scientists built this small headquarters exactly according to his wishes. It was a small miracle of technology and it was his realm, one of the few places where he felt truly comfortable.

Today he hadn't the luxury of being alone. His two subordinates had taken over his work, while he had been held up with useless negotiations, and their assistance was invaluable to manage the data onslaught during battle. Bumper, a small orange minibot, had been taught by Prowl for a few deca-orns, then he got fascinated by the technology itself and chose tactical communication officer as his career path. A wise and suiting choice, Prowl admitted privately, even though he had lost another potential student.

The other one Prowl didn't know as well, even though they had worked together on many operations. Steelplate was a quiet, dedicated tactician that seldom smiled. Together with his ill-kept, dark blue frame, he was often underestimated. Prowl knew from his file, that he was still mourning the deactivation of his family in a senseless bombing at the beginning of the war. It showed sometimes in his ruthless and merciless methods against the Decepticons. Despite this, Steelplate had proven to be a terrific tactician and was one of the few Prowl considered as a possible replacement for the head of the Tactical Department.

As Prowl lay down on his berth, his plates slid aside, revealing dozens of cables searching for their ports on the berth. When they had found them, non-vital systems closed down, whole new progressing units appeared, graphs flared in his HUD, and eventually, reality dissipated in an endless, steady stream of data and data bases, messages and signals. For the first time in deca-orns, Prowl found himself relaxing.

"Welcome, Sir. New jamming frequencies on all channels for two klicks," Bumper informed his newly arrived senior across the stream via radio.

"As expected." And just as predicted. "Activate our interference field." He opened his most encrypted connection. "Prowl to Smokescreen. It has begun."

"Copy that and out," was the short answer of his student. Hopefully, none of the Decepticons had detected the short connection this early.

Normally, Smokescreen's place would have been next to Prowl's berth. But his new job meant, he was responsible for the very close and constant supervision of many agents. And that would have led to conversations about their most secret operations via radio across a whole battlefield littered with enemies trying to decrypt their code. A layman was able to see that this option was too dangerous, so Jazz and Prowl had decided that all the tactical Live-Support for the BlackOps would be taken over by Smokescreen, and not – as normal – be shared by the tacticians. Instead of the many bodyguards Prowl's HQ had, Smokescreen would rely entirely on secrecy and Jazz's people as protection, while trying to stay as close to the agents as possible.

"Troop movements in sectors 76, 87 and 102," said Steelplate, every word precise. "As expected, they're coming from north and advance across the bridges."

"Observe those bridges, Steelplate. Detonate them, when more than 45 Decepticons are on one. Bumper, take over surveillance of the sector movements."

"Roger," was the technician's enthusiastic answer, followed by a cool "Copy that" from Steelplate. Silence lasted only a few kliks, then: "Bridge four destroyed. Detonation of bridge two and five imminent. Estimated deaths: 120."

"Good. Bumper?"

"Troop movements are increasing. Movement in all outer sectors. Seems to be a large-scale attack."

Worried, Prowl called up Bumper's maps. He had calculated for the possibility of a large-scale attack on all fronts, and still had hoped that the Decepticons would choose another tactic. This one could lead to a battle of attrition, with many, many deactivated on both sides. But Bumper's analysis was flawless.

"It's a major offensive," he confirmed and gave all troops new, refined orders.

After this, events happened fast. Steelplate destroyed all the bridges, but the Decepticons had anticipated this and brought makeshift bridges of their own. Around a third of those were demolished by BlackOps, before they had to fall back. The enemy advanced further.

"Sir," interrupted Bumper after a fast and intensive discussion between the two tacticians. "Hacker attacks are reducing my capacities to below 50 percent. By the look of it, it's Soundwave."

Soundwave, a mech who always complicated everything. Couldn't he have stayed in Kaon to enjoy one of the spectacular magnetic storms? But Soundwave wasn't Megatron's shadowmech and mech for the more 'sensitive' orders for nothing.

"Understood. Send your other data to me and concentrate on fending him off."

The Decepticons approached in spite of traps and ambushes, courtesy of Jazz and Smokescreen, fast in a broad front across the plain towards the inner sectors.

"Smokescreen to Prowl. Sightings of multiple mechs that are suspected to be part of gestalts. Among them, members of Bruticus."

"Thank you. Can you eliminate the team leaders?" The last thing he needed was a fully functional gestalt with aggression problems of the size of Cybertron's moons.

"We'll try. Out."

Again they minimally changed their attack strategy, while Smokescreen ordered sharp shooters as a countermeasure. Prowl's hope that the snipers could at least slow the advancing Decepticons disappeared quickly.

"They've reached the bridges of the inner sectors," Steelplate said in a level tone.

"Same game as before," ordered Prowl and opened his broadband connection. "To all Autobots. The enemy is advancing. Prepare for combat."

He switched over to individual troops and gave them their exact attacking orders. Before he could finish, one of the commanders sent a message with highest priority:

"Enemy contact! I repeat, enemy contact in sector 45!"

It was followed by similar messages from other sectors. Obviously, the Decepticons wanted to break through with all their might at a few chosen points. But the points seemed random. What was their strategy? Prowl couldn't see one, other than an attack based solely on violence and might. Well, that also wasn't unusual.

"Casualties in sector 35 to 40 between 25 and 30 percent."

"If beneath 65 percent request primary support of the sector."

They kept the front lines steady, forcing the Decepticons to retreat in a few sectors. However, just as Prowl had feared, the death toll was high. He searched in vain for a better strategy, for an idea to stop this attrition policy. Instead, he tried to advise the skirmishes directly, directed soldiers were they were needed and avoided thinking about the sparks that were forever lost. He could not afford to doubt. Not now. Typhern was worth it. It had to be. An urgent call yanked him out of his frenzy.

"Smokescreen to Prowl. We have a small problem here... A team found a bomb in sector two and deactivated it."

He sounded hesitant, worried, which raised red flags within the battle tactician. Prowl pinged Steelplate to take over his work for a moment and concentrated himself on the radio contact: "Details, Smokescreen."

"Okay! Bomb, plutonium-based, enough oomph to injure or kill most bots in the area. Prowl, it was hidden on the south side of the Vector Prime-bunker." Right there, where the whole air defense of sector two was stationed. Right there, were a bomb would cause the most damage.

Prowl could feel his air filter working faster. "Understood. Check all other vulnerable sites."

"I'll do my best. Smokescreen out."

He looked over the map, took over his duties again, but the bomb was always on his mind. How had they missed it? How had it been transported, how hidden? So far into their security zone, it should have been impossible. But far worse was the single resonating thought: Were there more? And another thing was strange. Normally, the fights in the air were hardest for the Autobots, because they had no matching troops to the Seekers. But there had only been scattered sightings. Was Starscream really not using this chance at glory? No, it was Starscream. Nothing short of Megatron's sudden death would keep him away from here. So, where were the Seekers? Were they waiting for more bombs, so that they hadn't to fear air defence?

"Sector 32 and 34 free from Decepticons. Furthermore, they are retreating in sectors 36 and 38 to 40."

Finally good news. "Wonderful. Bumper, what about Soundwave?"

"Just normal attacks. He's having a tough time with our firewalls," said the technician, pleased with himself.

Suddenly, various points on the maps that represented the bots on the battlefield went dark. A brief look on the locations confirmed his worst assumptions.

"Prowl to all air defense bases. State your location and situation."

Static. Then, "Base in sector two here. Unharmed." Sector after sector called in, but in the end a significant number was missing. Reports of a sudden explosion, that killed bots and destroyed most of the artillery gave more than a clue what had happened. Hurriedly Prowl fed his maps and statistics the newest information – and created a picture that chilled the energon in his cables. The Decepticons had placed the bombs with strategic care, creating air corridors without any Autobot air defence. He had to mobilise their own fliers!

"Smokescreen to Prowl. Seeker squadron from east, sector 26."

Red flashing points appeared on the map, moving fast, directly towards the new corridors, towards Typhern. They would slaughter the citizens! "Prowl to Autobot Fliers. Stop the Seekers with all available means!"

Steelplate had managed the normal coordination and communication meanwhile: "We're getting reports about strange Seeker behaviour. They're flying very high in a tight formation and ignoring everything below."

Grimly, Prowl read his maps and statistics. He had the sinking feeling that he was overlooking something, but he couldn't see it. The unprotected air corridors led in a direct line from the less embattled front lines, towards the zone where the support troops were waiting, to the core of Typhern. It made no sense to send the Seekers into Typhern. They were fantastic soldiers in the air, but on ground weak and despite able to kill many civilians; they would never be able to hold the city. So what was their mission? What didn't he see?

"The Seekers are separating!" Steelplate sounded troubled, an uncommon lapse for him. "They have released something."

"Something?"

All at once, Prowl felt as if he were hit by Superion's fist. Systems aborted and shut down, the data stream flared and plunged into blackness, time lost its meaning. Deep inside, something contorted in agony. As the assault abated, his circuitry slowly transmitted anew. It hurt, but he forced himself to regain access to stream before the tactical mainframe or his own processor had completely rebooted.

"EMP attack!" gasped Bumper, aghast.

"This strong?" doubted Steelplate, while trying hastily to regulate the jumbled data stream. "We're too far from the battlefield."

They were. Normally. But things change and improve, especially if you had a mad scientist on the other side. "That's Shockwave's new weapon!" realised Prowl with a deep horror.

And if they could feel it here, far away in a shielded and supposedly safe cabin, then the impact on the battlefield had to be apocalyptic. No wonder, that the seekers were flying so high, or that they released the EMP-bomb only far inside Autobot domain. Too near, and they would have hurt their own soldiers. Despairing, he counted the life signs of his Bots. Too few. All the support troops in affected ten sectors had perished, alongside them many frontliners. Heavily injured bots were counted on fifteen sectors more.

"Primus help us...," whispered Bumper. At least Soundwave's attacks had abruptly ended. Was the Decepticon affected, too? Whatever the reason was, it thankfully gave Bumper the chance to help his colleagues to defragment the data and to restore their communication lines.

The battle had turned. Now, they were on the defensive, on a few points already completely overrun. Sector after sector fell. Prowl tried to close their lines, to recover a strong front – but without support it was impossible. They were losing fast. An ominous possibility unfolded in his CPU, weighted heavily on his spark: retreat. Should he let Typhern fall, despite the trapped, trusting civilians, just to save more of his soldiers? Should he abandon this city, their oath to protect it and the still existing, although decreasing, chance at victory, simply because the cost was too high? With an ashy taste, he thought back to the orns leading up to this moment: Moonblaster and Barrel, Jazz's other dead agents, the sacrifice of Ironhide's younglings, the Chrome tower, and the already fallen soldiers... Had all their sacrifices been meaningless?

"Prowl," reported in a panicky Smokescreen. "The Seekers are coming back."

"No...," Prowl heard himself say, but his student was right. The Seekers had veered around, gathered again and started the exact same manoeuvre at the other end of Typhern. The few intact Autobot fliers were kept at bay by a whole flight cluster of Seekers.

He couldn't stop them. He couldn't do anything, but warn the others, knowing it was futile. Nothing, nothing could save them.

"Prowl to all soldiers: Seekers are turning back, prepare for EMP attack."

If the second EMP was even half as strong as the first one, every further fight was senseless.

"I repeat: Seekers are turning back, prepare for EMP attack."

Then everything went dark as the attack devoured his words forever.

It was harder to come online this time, to get his own systems running. Pain lingered. Prowl ignored the unimportant data, concentrating on restoring the communication lines and left his subordinates to do the rest:

"Initialise retreat! I repeat, to all Autobots, initialise retreat towards the east!" Quickly, he sent his plans towards Smokescreen, so that he could reroute it towards Jazz's agents. He received no confirmation from Smokescreen. Was his student among the casualties? Was Jazz still alive?

"Prowl to all commanders of the tank divisions: cover the retreat. Hold the following landmarks at all costs!" Of all orders, 'at all costs' was the one universally hated the most. It was seldom more than a hidden command to die for the cause. He banished all empathy with those divisions, and especially with troop Delta and Phie. The tank frames had survived the EMP blast thanks to their sturdy armour better than most, were strong enough to manage this task and available. They were the logical choice.

Prowl looked over the area, where the second blast had struck and wanted to access the maps with the status signals – only to met a fragmented chaos, left behind by the EMP. Almost nothing had been restored. Unacceptable. Those status signals had one of the highest priorities to restore, and he needed them, now!

"Bumper, Steelplate, what are you doing?" No answer. He tried to call their data unsuccessfully. Next, he sent an ping. Nothing. "Report, that's an order!" It was as if they weren't online.

They weren't online any more.

And then, finally, and much, much too late, Prowl understood the plan of the Decepticons. So simple, so elegant and deadly.

The tactician knew what he had to do. What was more important than the Autobots on the battlefield, than his plans, than the retreat and his own life. He acted as he had practised a thousand times before and sent a highly complex string of secret code to the mobile, tactical headquarters.

For a moment the dark, humming computers faltered and verified, though in the end they obeyed. The data stream writhed, turned and shattered. Data banks were corrupted and maps bleached to white. As efficient and reliable as it ever had been in its short life, the mainframe erased itself.

Prowl averted his mind from the loss of critical data, not wanting to contemplate the destruction of one of the few things he cherished, not wanting to think about those he had abandoned when they needed him most. Instead, he concentrated on waking up as fast as possible – too fast to be healthy – from his trance and onlined his optics.

- Just to see the black muzzle of a pistol.

Reflexively he flinched away, threw himself to the side and off the berth. A shot pierced his left doorwing. The tactician cried out and tried to find his balance again. Something, or somebot, kicked with enough power to toss the Praxian against the wall. Fragile doorwings crumpled upon collision. Agony blanked his processor. Warnings flared up, he was losing energon too fast... Survival programs kicked in, enabled him to try to stand up, but he was hit again. This time in the knee.

Prowl collapsed. But not without discovering only a few meters next to him the grey, stiffened body of Bumper. The familiar face gazed at him with an empty expression, mouth grotesquely wide open, an arm still connected to the berth. Energon flowed from the shredded torso, smearing the floor.

Blue pedes stepped into his visual field, into the growing puddle, and he looked the body up, freezing as he recognized the attacker – Soundwave.

Another shot. Silence.

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><p>AN: This is probably the right moment to mention, that this isn't a Death fic. ;) There will more chapters to come.

It would be great to hear the opinions of this chapter, because this was the reason I made the oneshot (chapter 1) into an whole fanfic. Those two EMP blasts were inspired by Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the song "nuclear attack" by Sabaton.

~silber


	7. Allegation

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any recognisable ideas.

Beta: Starfire201 and taralynden. Both of you, thank you.

Reviewers: All of you, thank you, that you took the time to tell me how you like this story. It's always encouraging. :)

Note: Longest chapter so far. ^-^

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><p>7. Allegation<p>

Relaxed, Jazz leaned against the decrepit wall and watched with a seemingly bored attitude as Smokescreen sent his agents onto missions. The room was small, barely enough for a chair with a single port, the many required computers and two big blue screens, that served as the only source of light. So far it wasn't going too badly. Here, an officer had been eliminated; there, a few strategically placed bombs. Jazz' bots did more than just their share to keep Typhern safe.

While he kept an eye on the Praxian to avoid any disastrous errors during his first serious operation for SpecOps, he wished nothing more than to be in the midst of the action. On the front maybe or - even better - far behind it, in enemy territory. He missed the burning ecstasy of being in the face of danger, the deep satisfaction when he took an enemy in his sights and astroseconds later watched them fall as a grey husk.

But sadly, this was more important. Until now, he had known that Prowl considered and calculated with the special needs and problems which his agents had. Smokey, on the other hand, was new and untested. Still, his agents profited from the extra attention of the tactician. Not only were they able to play through more scenarios in simulations, but they had a way to better secure most of their communications, because they didn't have to use the same frequencies as the tactical headquarters. They had gained psychologically, too. His agents were calmer, because their tactician was one of their own – and that meant he was safe.

Smokescreen looked up for a moment and presented the four chosen spies for the latest mission. Their abilities as stated in their reports made them the best for this job, but in Jazz's department reports sometimes had even less worth than a good lie.

"Boot out Turnabout, his last mission didn't go well." If you could call capture and torture as such.

"Roger that," answered Smokescreen and replaced the agent. This time Jazz waved it through.

Prowl hadn't promised too much on that orn long ago. But Jazz hadn't expected differently anyway. He sincerely doubted, that Prowl could lie convincingly about anything. He was just too straight-forward. For the good of the Autobot army the tactician didn't need to. Most of the time his facts and incorruptible logic were enough that everyone did as he ordered. Especially Prime.

Jazz, on the other hand, was a genius in the art of lying and proud of it. He would have taken Smokey in for nothing, just to get one over on those petty lieutenants, but to get a favour on top of it had been sweet triumph.

A cool and composed voice cut through the small room: "Prowl to Smokescreen. It has begun."

"Copy that and out," answered Smokescreen without missing a beat in his own orders and calculations. The SpecOps missions had begun nearly an orn before the battle.

Jazz crossed his arms and forced himself to be calm. It was strange to be so far from the battle. Repeatedly he caught himself thinking about excuses to go with this or that team. What wouldn't he have given to blow up one of those bridges.

As the Decepticons advanced, they changed tactics from sabotage to reconnaissance. Soon, they got more and more sightings of tagged mechs with a special attribute: They were part of a combiner.

Smokey looked grim as he read the newest reports. Voice connections to their agents were deemed too much of a risk. "There has been a second sighting of Onslaught, one of Vortex, one of Brawl, and five of other combiner members."

"Looks as if Bruticus is joining the party," commented Jazz lightly. He met the look of his newest subordinate, who simply sat there. "What are you waiting for? Call Prowl. A combiner is nothing we can handle alone."

Obviously relieved, Smokescreen turned to his work again. Jazz behind him made a mental notice that they would need to talk about this. Did Smokey really think, that he would prevent him from calling Prowl with information? That was their job! And arguments, even if said arguments involved corpses, had no influence on that.

"Smokescreen to Prowl. We have sightings of mechs that are probably part of a combiner. Among them members of Bruticus."

"Thank you." A small thread of amusement weaved through the saboteur's thoughts. Prowl was the only mech he knew who took the time for polite phrases in the middle of a battle. "Could you eliminate the teamleaders?"

"We'll try. Out." With growing confidence, Smokescreen chose suitable agents and sent them on their way.

The battle continued, but the SpecOps ignored it more or less and concentrated on their own orders.

"Any sightings of the Big Four?" Jazz's name for Megatron, Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave.

"No."

Not good. Of course, the highest officers on the Autobot side – Prowl and Jazz – weren't actively participating in the fights either, but the Decepticons had another doctrine: If you want to lead, you have to prove that you're strong enough to lead from the front, always. So, where were the Decepticions' beloved psychopaths?

"Jazz, I've got a Green-Black here!"

The head of intelligence turned away from his own, suddenly boring reports and to Smokescreen. Green-Black was a rare Code, that could be translated to: We have here a gigantic problem, that is still under control. It never stayed under control.

"Which agent and what's the problem?"

"Lightflash and his team found a bomb in Sector Two, south-side of the Vector Prime-bunker." The tactician scanned the datapad. "Seems like it was hidden very well."

Jazz wrenched the datapads from him. Bypassing all unimportant statements as guesswork, he cut right through to the photos of the bomb. And a wave of burning fury lit his spark.

The bomb was made from plutonium and created an incredible hot, nearly unstoppable force which was able to smelt its way through every shield. Whoever their bomber was, he didn't want to kill mechs but destroy the base and, more importantly, the heavy weapons that couldn't be moved. But the location of the bomb was particular – someone had planted it beneath the floor, before the base had been built. Orns ago.

That was only possible with insider information or incredible luck. And Jazz didn't believe in luck.

"Call Prowl," Jazz ordered acidly while searching the bomb schematics for the one small signature that would tell him who built this baby. Not a beginner. Mixmaster? Maybe even Shockwave? And how did they get those information despite all of his counterintelligence? Under his tightening grip the datapad cracked ominously.

In the background, Smokescreen informed Prowl. He sounded tense and that was bad. The last thing his agents needed on a hazardous mission was a nervous tactician in their audios.

"Understood. Check all other vulnerable sites," answered Prowl.

Why did Prowl always try to order his people around? Fissures appeared on the pad and he put it away. Control. He needed control. At least, they both seemed to agree about the biggest problem with this mysterious bomb: Where one was, others could be there, too.

Smokescreen confirmed the order and terminated the connection. Before he could say anything, Jazz stepped away from his spot on the wall.

"You coordinate the teams. I'll check the surroundings."

Smokescreen's optics widened a bit: "Here?"

The probability was low; for their room they had used all secrecy available. But Jazz had to do something or he would lay into his newbie agent when the next confirmation about a bomb came. Second, he knew that objective probabilities counted for almost nothing if sabotage was involved.

"Yes, here. You've heard our genius tactician."

Smokescreen nodded. He didn't even think about questioning Prowl's orders. In a few vorns he would hopefully have the same blind trust towards Jazz. "Okay."

"Don't mess up, Smokey. I trust you."

With a faked cheery wave he stepped out of the base into an old, grey supply tunnel full of rubble, which was illuminated by a single lamp a fair way off. Long deep shadows concealed the door and a few emergency kits he had hid there for good measure nearly perfectly.

Following the riots that later led to this endless waltz of a war, somebots had barricaded this tunnel and never opened it up again. Once, it had been a lively trade route, with small maintenance rooms every two kilometres or so. One of them was now the HQ of the SpecOps, which conveniently made it possible to operate directly from beneath the battlefield.

Quietly humming, he took his vibro-knife out of subspace. It was an old weapon, smooth in his servo and in its use, without any fancy tricks. The familiar weight and its sharp certainty were soothing his nerves. Twirling the knife, Jazz began to search systematically.

But there was nothing. Maybe they really were safe. Maybe there really had only been one. As if!

The saboteur's sight fell onto the lamp. The one location where he himself would have hidden the bomb. Nobody wanted to contemplate, that the one thing sending out light, was possibly the one thing that would kill you.

Feeling dead certain about his hunch, Jazz used his magnetic grapplers to climb the wall, until he was next to the ancient, dirty lamp. Honestly, it was a small miracle that it was still functioning. Not for much longer. The agent stabbed his vibro-knife into the small gap between lamp and wall. He expected resistance and leveraged with all he had. Instead a soft crunching and the whole thing crashed violently onto the floor.

Only darkness remained. And the two, yellow blinking lights right in front of him.

_`Found ya,`_ Jazz thought with a satisfied smile.

The infrared spectrum of his visor took over and the saboteur began to dismantle the device very carefully. One wrong decision and the tunnel, their base, Smokey and himself would be nothing more than a nice memory. And he really had better things planned than being reduced to a golden plate with his name engraved on it.

"Jazz to Smokescreen. How many bombs have we found so far?" he asked, while removing the timer with steady, practised servos.

"Four, but I'm expecting more to come. All of them were in air defense bases."

"Take the count up to five. We have received our very own surprise gift." The bomb had been built for its destructive potential. Simple, but effective. He would put his money on Mixmaster.

"What?" Shock coloured Smokey's voice. "But that would mean..."

"That we have a traitor," finished Jazz grimly as he deactivated the device. "A traitor that is very intelligent and resourceful."

His previous anger had cooled, until it was edged and merciless. A perfect sharpening tool for only one task: He would find them, wherever they hid, wherever they run to and kill them, as was his duty.

"But only five bots knew about this base. Five! And I swear, I haven't told anybody a thing!"

"Relax, Smokey, I know." Not only was Smokescreen not one for suicide, Jazz had also hacked him as a part of his SpecOps training against torture – and to check if he was a spy for Prowl. Smokescreen wasn't. "I'll have to inform Prowl about the traitor. Nothing I want to send through the air. Do you know a flier somewhere, who can fly me over?"

It was a risk to leave Smokescreen alone, but a controllable one, and as good their communication with the tactical HQ was, it wasn't perfect. Especially so far into the battle. Not only could the enemy hear that they were unto him, but a curious Autobot reacting the wrong way was just as disastrous. Most mechs panicked too easily, especially at the suggestion of traitors. Particularly if they were as high-up the command chain as this one appeared to be.

A short silence. "A shuttle is free at troop rally point nine."

"Thanks. I wont answer any communication while I travel."

"Copy that. Good luck."

Luck? Luck had nothing to do with Jazz' job.

He raced down the tunnel and across the plain towards site nine, always careful not to be recognised. Secrecy was his best and only protection.

Five Autobots, five possible traitors. Smokescreen and himself he could count out.

Mirage, his best scout, had known about the base, because he had found the tunnel nearly a deca-orn ago. But since then he was behind enemy lines and had no way to discover the locations of the air defense bases.

Audiowave knew about all the bases in question. He had created their communication lines and maintained them. There was just one small problem – Jazz hadn't trusted him and had had him shadowed since he came to Typhern by some of his most faithful agents. Audiowave hadn't been alone for one astrosecond.

Who was he trying to fool? There was only one bot who knew about all the bases and had more than enough chances to betray them all. Only one bot he hadn't had watched: Prowl.

As the shuttle, that unfortunately knew who his passenger was, swiftly departed with him in it, he quietened his rampant thoughts.

There were other possibilities. More than one traitor, bad luck on their part, a weakness in their security… Anyway, he needed to talk with the Senior Battle tactician mech to mech. Maybe he had told someone else those details in a sudden drop of intelligence?

During the flight, he thought back to the failed negotiations and the Chrome tower. The SpecOps had had hints and signs that among the councillors was a traitor, but he couldn't provide proof. Proof Prowl would have demanded. He had said nothing, but was sure that this one hidden Decepticon was manipulating all the other councillors behind the scenes and was delaying the negotiations for as long as possible. With every orn Prowl was senselessly occupied in the Chrome Tower, more vital information was passed on.

And then that last demand. Outrageous! It was the straw that had broken Jazz' patience. He had to do something, and if he had to blame the enemy – so be it. Still, he had asked Prowl, what he thought, what they should do... and to his amazement Prowl had agreed with him. At that time Jazz had been happy.

But now... what if Prowl had been the one doing the manipulating and delaying? As the single representative of the Autobot side, he would have been in an ideal position for it. And then Jazz would have played right into his hand by killing all the witnesses.

A possible ruthless move that he could nearly admire in a strictly professional way.

"ETA in three breems," said the bright yellow shuttle. Jazz hadn't bothered with learning his name.

"Thanks." They would land remote from the HQ, to avoid giving the enemy any hint.

Suddenly the shuttle rolled over, engines spluttering and then plunged. Jazz' systems flared and illegal security drives jumped up, howling. EMP, a part of him distantly recognised through the agony. How... there was no way they had run into a trap. He manually onlined his most important systems through more than questionable subroutines, ignoring the many warnings and errors. With a sense of panic, he noticed that the shuttle was still falling. Were they crashing?

"Hey, soldier, are you alright?"

"Y-yes, sir." They transitioned into a less steep flight angle until they glided along normally again. "My armour has shielded us from most of it."

"Really?" Jazz knew that shuttles had a special, very strong armour to protect them against cosmic radiation, for example, sun storms, or particle beams that black holes fired into the universe. But this EMP had felt anything but weak or shielded.

"Yes." A short silence. "There was a gigantic explosion behind us. It looked like an exploding star! Do you know what it was?"

Probably Shockwave's new weapon. Bombs really seemed to be the theme this orn. He bumped the scientist up a few places on his mechs-I-wish-to-kill-list and answered:

"Afraid not." No reason to spread speculations. "Can you still fly?"

"Of course, sir." The shuttle spoke stiffly as if he were insulted by the very notion, that a mere EMP attack could stop him.

From how the shuttle described the explosion they hadn't been very near to it. And they were shielded at least a bit. Just how bad was then the situation among the soldiers? Yet, worrying was useless. He couldn't do anything for them.

Or at least this was what he told himself.

In front of them the landing site appeared. It was a simple open spot that once had been a small crystal park for the surrounding suburbs. Now, there were only shoulder-high ruins and this place littered with scattered grey crystal rocks left.

"Prowl to all soldiers: Seekers are turning back, prepare for EMP attack," sounded across the seldom used open commline. Prowl's voice was miraculously composed for such a message.

Jazz cursed. "Land! You have to land!"

"I'm doing it!", answered the shuttle tremulously. His manoeuvre was more akin to a free fall.

"I repeat: Seekers are turning back, prepare for EMP attack."

It hit them, when they were still a few metres above the ground. The Autobot crashed and slided over the gravel before stopping as a quivering giant. Even forewarned, Jazz' systems halted for a crucial moment. When he fully came back to consciousness, he already received the next order:

"Initialise retreat! I repeat, to all Autobots, initialise retreat towards the east!"

A small, defeated growl escaped Jazz.

Was it really that bad, that the Autobots had to retreat for the third time in the whole war, both times before with horrible consequences, or...? Better to hurry, in any case.

The intelligence chief swayed as he stood and slowly moved out of the flier. At least the shuttle seemed alright. Had a few bumps and scratches, but alright.

"Soldier," he ordered as firm as he could, while a few systems still recovered. "Report to the following coordinates and help the bots you find there retreating. Speak with no one on your way. Understood?"

A affirmative ping. "Does that mean I'm now part of SpecOps?" came the enthusiastic question.

"Not really. But you have to make it to those coordinates without being spotted." And considering a whole army was retreating, that shouldn't be too difficult.

"I will!"

"Great." He found himself smiling. "What was your name again?"

"Gold Bug, Officer Jazz."

The base he sent him to was the interrogation room for captured Decepticon officers. The agent in charge would use the shuttle in the retreat and then keep him further around, until it was clear that the information where Jazz was or had been wasn't important anymore. It was simple standard security to prevent unwelcomed rumours.

He patted the hull of Gold Bug reassuringly and transformed.

As fast as he could, he drove around the ruins, on streets covered with debris and a few others things, towards the headquarters. All his communication lines were wide open, waiting for information about the retreat, for new orders – but there was only silence.

At first, he thought that the tacticians were giving all the troops separate orders on channels apart from the main one, but when he switched to them, he still only encountered silence and a growing confusion among the soldiers. Not long and it would grow into panic. An uncoordinated retreat was a worst case scenario no one wanted to experience.

What in Primus' name were the tacticians doing? Were they having a midbattle break? Where was Prowl? He couldn't really be...

For the first time in a long time ago, Jazz felt true dread. Fearing what he would find, he slowed down into stealth mode and stalked carefully forward.

From afar, he could already see two big transformed mechs – shuttles. But the guardians of the tacticians had no shuttles, only normal soldiers and a few tanks. They had to be Decepticons.

His worst thoughts found their way into reality as he drove nearer and made out heaps of grey corpses in front of the door of the round black headquarters. Every one of them had only one injury, exactly above their spark.

This hadn't been a fight, but a mass execution.

It was obvious what had happened: The Decepticons had used the bombs to create a way for the seekers to attack and for those two shuttles to cross deep into Autobot territory. There they waited until the EMP bomb was dropped and then, killed the stunned and vulnerable bodyguards. When the second blast hit, they probably were already into the base and overwhelming the tacticians.

The timing, the mission, all pointed towards a perfectly trained elite troop.

At second glance, he discovered a few Decepticons near the shuttles. Outside, without protection. At least another EMP blast wasn't likely. But the damage was wrought and Jazz was alone.

The door glided open and a group of mechs with two dark green stripes around their upper arms came outside, all silent and in perfect formation. In their middle – Prowl. His doorwings leaked energon, he limped, even though that wound had been temporarily patched up. His face was utterly devoid of any emotion or thought.

Disturbingly enough, Prowl wasn't shackled.

Did he receive the wounds through the other two tacticians, as they realised that they were betrayed? Were those Decepticons a protection detail?

Either Prowl was a traitor of the worst kind or Soundwave had already hacked him. With most mechs it would have been easy to identify which answer it was at a distance, thanks to the detached and emotionless look on their face. But Prowl didn't have the nickname 'drone' for nothing.

The last mech to step outside was Soundwave with a pistol in his left servo. Jazz could almost feel the smugness radiating from him. For a moment the saboteur contemplated just jumping out and trying to shoot his counterpart, but a rational part of his mind pointed out that he would be killed before accomplishing anything.

"Mission: Completed. Board the shuttles," ordered the Decepticon spy master, not deigning the corpses around him a single glance.

Trembling from repressed rage and helplessness, he watched as Prowl was led towards one flier. The tactician showed no resistance.

Across the commlines Smokescreen took over the tactical leadership of the retreat. Jazz would have applauded the bot for his fast and daring thinking. The orders lacked quality and detail, without a doubt Prowl's ex-student was overwhelmed, but they came and the retreat continued.

Whatever Prowl had intended with his last order, it had been right. It was the only possible conclusion after two EMP-bombs and the loss of nearly all tacticians.

They had lost. Epically.

Jazz gripped his weapon tighter. But this was not the end of the war.

If Prowl was a traitor, he had to die before he could talk some more. If he wasn't one, the highest priority was to get him back – or to kill him before Soundwave had achieved access to the incredibly valuable source of information that Prowl's memory banks were.

An assassin surely was the safest and most sensible course of action, or as Prowl would say: logical. Yet, he wasn't Prowl. He didn't leave Autobots behind, just because it was logical.

But was Prowl still an Autobot? And wouldn't such a death in the hands of the enemy be poetic justice?

While the shuttles started up and Jazz hid in the shadow of a broken down building, he realised that he had to decide fast. Rescue mission or assassin? Fundamentally, it came down to one very simple question:

Was Prowl an Autobot that Jazz wanted to save?


	8. Interrogation

Took a bit longer than expected thanks to exams and the fact that I got a bit squeamish about the torture. I hope it's still readable, though.

Thanks to Starfire 201 who betaed this chapter.

Warnings for this chapters: Torture, hacking, rape

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><p><strong>8. Interrogation<strong>

He was awake, every microchip within his processors was active and working, every sensor reported reliably what he was doing – and yet he couldn't control any of his movements. Prowl had heard of Soundwave's legendary skills in hacking, but to be overpowered this effortlessly was terrifying.

Soundwave hadn't used a normal blaster as Prowl had thought in the first moment of panic, but one of Starscream's signature weapons, a nullray. As a result, he was 'just' knocked out for less than half a breem and disoriented for several more. This small window of time had sufficed for Soundwave, to force himself into several ports of his victim and launch a viral attack which tore down the outmost firewalls ruthlessly.

Reflexively, Prowl drew back and protected his innermost parts, his core code, his data banks full of memories and informations about the Autobots, his codes to his sparkchamber... Though the Decepticon ignored all these, breaking through the flimsy protections of the vulnerable and now open codes of his motoric centre and overtook them with cold precision.

When Prowl realised that the Decepticon's goal wasn't to kill him, nor to demolish his firewalls with brutal force, driving him insane and then stealing the few bits of information that would survive the assault, it was already too late. He had become a puppet.

Furiously, he tried to work against Soundwave's viruses and codes, against the foreign presence within his body, while being all too aware to what ends he now could be used. He prayed to Primus and every deity that would listen, that please, please, let no Autobot be near – he didn't want to witness the dying of their sparks through his own guided hands just for the sick amusement of enemy soldiers.

When he saw the entire unit that should have protected him lying grey and dead on the ground, his spark constricted in sudden realisation. There were no Autobots but him left. They had all died because of him. Had given their lives for him, even though he had failed, recognized the plans of the Decepticons far too late and only led them all to their demise... Worse, he knew that all the corpses here were only a small percentage of today's dead, for which he was responsible.

"Mission: Completed," said Soundwave. "Board the shuttles."

Before the order had ended, Prowl's body was already moving. Inside the shuttle, they bound his hands, more a sign of his status than true worry that he would attack them and escape. They were all very well trained soldiers, professionals of the kind the Autobots had few of and against which a tactician never had a chance. As they took off, Prowl prepared himself mentally for a long flight into the heart of the Decepticon Empire, Darkmount.

But he was wrong, as he seemingly always was in these orns. What was his worth as a tactician if he couldn't predict the most simplest decisions anymore?

Before they landed, Soundwave had deactivated his optics and audios. Blind and deaf, his body marched a long time until it reached his cell. With practised movements the soldiers bound him so securely to the wall that he had to remain standing, hit him a few times in the face and laughed, then thankfully went to their other duties. As the door fell shut behind them, his control finally came back.

He couldn't move more than his hands and pedes. Instead the Praxian observed his hopeless situation with clinical detachment. The cell was grey, the walls obviously made from enhanced titanium alloy, and protected through an additional energy field. The door was integrated into the wall so seamlessly that he needed a bit to even find it at his right. Only an even thicker energy field, which hinted at further security measures inside the doorframe, had betrayed the location.

Prowl was in a high security cell, once used for the most dangerous murderers and traitors. On the whole of Cybertron there was only one such cell in each of the six biggest cities. Those cities were Iacon, Kaon, Vos, Tarn, Crystal City and Praxus. Was he in one of those cities? Or did the Decepticons really make the effort to recreate those cells?

Wherever it was, in the end it didn't matter for Prowl. No one had ever escaped from a high security cell. This was his new home – and probably the place were he would die, too.

Time passed, but thanks to the unpleasant surprise that Soundwave had erased several small programs for his less important systems among them his chronometer, he didn't know how much. When the door opened again, it was Soundwave who entered with an energon cube in hand. The tactician had known that his tank levels had been low, but with the energon only two armlengths from his face forced him to acknowlege his hunger.

"Soundwave," he greeted coldly.

"Head of the Tactical Department, Prowl," was the emotionless answer. "Autobot. Our demand: Surrender all data about the Autobot army. In exchange: Your life."

They both knew that there could only be one answer. This were only the first steps of a long dance. "No."

"Answer: Expected." Soundwave stepped forward. "Offer: A piece of information of your choice for the energon cube."

As if it would remain his choice for long. No, this was just a psychological trick to lower his inhibitions against giving Soundwave information of any kind and to establish a mockery of trust.

"No."

"This answer: Also expected."

Soundwave carelessly threw the cube against the wall, were it broke. Pink energon splashed through the cell, now undrinkable and useless. But the scent! It increased tenfold and Prowl's tank gave an comfortable lurch.

Without another word Soundwave turned and walked out. Prowl leant back against the wall, deactivated his optics and tried to ignore his hunger – and the knowledge that soon he would seriously starve.

Twice more Soundwave came with a cube and asked for information, twice more Prowl refused and watched how the very thing he needed was destroyed just a few metres in front of him. His survival codes screamed at him that he should just tell the Decepticon any information, that it wouldn't matter. But it would. He knew it and he refused to fail again. If he starved to death here, it was still a small consolation for those who had died on Typhern's battlefields for nought.

Besides that, he was aware that those psychological games were not the goal of Soundwave. The telepath was just waiting for the main event – the hacking – until Prowl was weak enough. The tactician tried to avoid thinking of his chances then, not wanting to know how truly helpless and weak he was.

The fourth time Soundwave came and asked, the game changed.

"No," said Prowl, forcing the word out while trying to shut down the dozens of harmless lines of information his battle computer provided. It was stupid, what he did, whispered his codes, he could survive much longer, wait for rescue, try to play a long game with information that was worthless for both sides...

"Answer: Expected." Again a cube shattered on the wall. But instead of turning around, Soundwave took a sharp, gleaming knife from subspace and knelt next to the bound Praxian. "Punishment: Necessary."

Prowl felt a sudden rise of fear. Deliberately moving slow the Decepticon set the knife on the sensitive doorwing and pushed down. There were few places a Praxian could feel more than on his wings, and a knife cutting through the layers and sensors and cables of it was excruciating. Prowl had to look away as his doorwing was mutilated.

He wouldn't scream, he wouldn't. Not for Soundwave!

The knife carved deeper, tore apart thin armour, reached the exoform with it's many thousand datapaths which bled so much pink energon, until it reached the silver and soft protoform, hidden and protected deep inside normally.

Prowl was trembling, trying to keep the static, the screams inside. Fearing what was to come, hoping, that Soundwave wouldn't... he wouldn't...

Soundwave did.

With brutal efficiency he stabbed the blade inside the tender protoform, sliced it apart and maimed it beyond repair. Prowl screamed, tried to get away, thrashed. Nothing helped.

Then, suddenly, with a sharp pain the knife was pulled out. From the blade dripped the pink energon and the silver protoform blood.

Soundwave stood without another word and walked out. Fearing the worst, Prowl looked at his right doorwing – and only saw one thin long gap through the whole wing, that was still seeping silver and pink. Nothing more.

A high keen escaped Prowl as he realised that far worse pain was to come.

The next few visits happened more frequently, or maybe the energon loss was just slowing down Prowl's time perception. Every time he now refused, Soundwave would punish him. Once he crushed the left outmost finger, once he destroyed the joint in the elbow, once he carved the right optic out slowly and with delight.

Prowl was now constantly in pain, half-blind, starving and getting more and more exhausted, even though he didn't move at all. He needed substance, but the price – information – was too high (Was it?). Everytime he said "No" it got harder to betray his own body. The uncertainty of how Soundwave would hurt him this time was enough to drive him mad.

The most obvious change was that he recharged more and more. Soon, he knew, his body wouldn't wake at all anymore, would fall into that kind of stasis his race could survive millennia in. The last two times Soundwave had come, he had been recharging and was woken up by the mech breaking another one of his fingers. His hands had slowly become barely recognizable. Since then, his recharge wasn't deep and restful anymore, as he expected Soundwave and more pain at any time.

Nightmares started to haunt him, full of Autobots accusing him of betrayal, of screaming "youngling-murderer", of killing them by the thousands and Soundwave torturing him.

Though, the worst nightmares were the ones were he had died and no one missed him, but Autobots and Decepticons alike cursed his name and celebrated his deactivation. These dreams left his sparks hurting as he couldn't stop thinking about how true they were. Was there anyone who would mourn him, a sparkless failure of tactician?

More and more he woke softly keening and with static coming out of his vocaliser, fearing what his own processor unit would torment him with next time. Still, he always helplessly fell back into recharge.

Though, this time, he wasn't woken up by pain. No, a strange feeling had scurried through his processor, as if something had just changed, had touched were no one was supposed to touch. The moment he became aware, Soundwave gave up every illusion of stealth and attacked the firewall with full force.

With horror he onlined his left optic, just to see Soundwave standing in front of him. Between them hung one single silver cable, connected to his port. Prowl's doorwings tried to flinch back without his consent, just to hit the wall painfully as panic surged through him. The wounds of the last orns, deca-orns, who knew, opened up again, but he ignored the pain for the horror in front of him. Inside him, the assault had slowed as Prowl hastily began to actively configure the firewall against the onslaught.

"Status: No negotiations. Consequence: Hacking necessary." For the first time, Prowl could discern an emotion in the Decepticon – satisfaction. This was what Soundwave had wanted all along.

He had never been hacked before and had barely learned more than the basic course of all tacticians. To learn how to defend against foreign invasion, you first had to let someone in... Prowl had risen too fast in the ranks of the Autobots to allow experienced spies invade his processors that deeply. Later Prowl hadn't seen true need to force himself through that painful procedure. After all, Iacon was protected well. An the rare cases he left their capital, he had a bodyguard file comparable to Prime's. So why squander precious time and possibly give away high risk information?

The answer was now staring into his face.

"No," he said again, just to be defiant, just to prove that he wouldn't give up and tried to prepare himself.

Angst wormed itself into his spark when out of Soundwave's armour more thin, long silver cables crawled out and started to caress Prowl. Every touch was strange and simply wrong. Too tender, too dangerous, too false. Prowl trembled, but he didn't dare to lower his gaze, to let Soundwave out of his one remaining optic. The fear of pain, of further torture was sitting too deep.

The first cables pushed themselves through the panels which had been loosed during the first hacking and torture afterwards. Prowl sputtered static as the not-wanted cables touched his ports, invaded them, connected. It was painful, too fast, too much... but Soundwave didn't stop. Port after port was opened and overtaken.

Prowl had had lovers in the past, had played around with his ports, had let medics touch him... but no one had used more than four. They all had left him the control, control that he didn't even possess as an illusion here any more.

Twelve ports. Two for medics, four for data transfers with a computer, four for other mechs and two that had only been used by his creators. The last two were directly above his spark, sealed and had not been opened for a long, long time.

After ten ports were corrupted, he felt already full, so painfully pulled apart and vulnerable. Then the cables sneaked across his breastplate, across his spark. They found the armour that hid the two ports with which Prowl had always connected warmth and family and love. Which he would only have ever opened again for his own sparkling, spark by his spark. To imagine Soundwave touching there, was nearly more than he could bear.

"Please," he begged. He knew that Soundwave wouldn't stop and yet, he had to try. "Please, don't... not those two ports. Leave them, please, if you have mercy..."

Soundwave wasn't interested in such sentiments. He opened them, tore the seals apart and brushed the overly sensitive metal in a mockery of care. Prowl pressed himself against the wall until his doorwings bent in agony just to get away, but it was to no avail.

Soundwave rammed into the sparkports and Prowl screamed and cried. It was too near to his spark, too near to his core code, this foreign, cold presence was too near to what Prowl was and sullied it all irreversible. Then data flooded him, firewalls were attacked and the cell vanished in the dark of his processor as every thread of energy was concentrated on stopping the Decepticon, on protecting the innermost.

Prowl fought. Primus himself could witness it. He fought for a long, long time.

He had lost his sensors first, and with them every feeling for his battered body. Somehow his energy never completely vanished and he supposed that someone had put him on an energon drip, just enough that he wouldn't break down because his body cannibalised itself. Soundwave didn't permit any escapes and breaks, not even into stasis.

Again and again he threw himself desperately against the merciless attacks; again and again, he rebuilt his defenses, just to see them demolished again. Piece by piece he lost programs and functions, was pushed back in his own processors.

Searching, the cold presence moved on and on. Like cold black ice Soundwave's very thoughts slid around the vulnerable core processes, freezed and pushed until the lines shattered. The tactician screamed and writhed in agony as every time his world, his very I died a bit more.

But Prowl kept on fighting despite the pain and the horror. He had to.

While Soundwave overtook more and more of his Self, Prowl excruciatingly put up new firewalls to defend the most important place: The knowledge about the Autobot army. He even went so far to hid the knowledge on the databanks behind his core code.

Though Soundwave came nearer. He left a field of pain and destruction, of cut up thoughts and dissected data banks. Prowl was disappearing...

Sooner or later, Soundwave would cut through his core code, destroying Prowl's personality completely and push forward into his deepest memories and knowledge. Plans, maps, strengths-weaknesses-analyses, secret bases, even just guessworks like about the identities of the SpecOps agents, it all would serve the enemy. Thousands of Autobots would be doomed to a violent death.

Because he had been too weak to defend himself in his own thoughts, his own processor with which he had always been better than anyone else.

Even here he was now failing.

What was he still worth, when he couldn't even fulfill the purpose anymore for which he had been built? When he had sent the soldiers that trusted him to death? When he, as long as he lived, was the key for the demise of the Autobots?

For the first time in his life Prowl wished, he could commit suicide.

But Soundwave had taken that option from him long ago.


	9. Protestation

**Disclaimer:** Transformer belongs Hasbro, not me.

**Beta:** The wonderful Starfire201, as always.

**Warnings:** Rape (or at least Dub-Con)

* * *

><p>9. Protestation<p>

He was floating in pain and nothingness, just waiting for the last light to extinguish. He was so near to peace, to the end... something touched his wings near his abused ports and horror wrenched him out of oblivion. But he was too weak to even activate his optics, or to struggle as the touches returned.

"Slag, he looks bad."

"At least now we know that he didn't work for them."

"Maybe this is the Decepticons**'** 'thank you'."

Quiet laughter. "Then I really don't want to see their punishments."

"Considering Starscream keeps living..."

"Right. We should hurry up, he's greying."

They moved his body, pain flared up in his mind**,** and with relief Prowl sank back into stasis. Hoping to never awake again.

* * *

><p>"So, finally you're waking up again," was the first thing Prowl heard as his cognitive functions took over their duties again.<p>

Data pooled together, his logic chips gave him back the first impressions without any connection: His movements were limited, he didn't get any information from his doorwings and the voice was well-known. But it couldn't be Jazz. Impossible. Not in Soundwave's cell. Still... what did he have to lose? What if Jazz had been captured as well?

"Jazz?" he tried to ask, but the mouthplates were too stiff and he only managed something garbled and alien.

Luckily, the mech seemed to have understood him anyway, because he answered: "Yours truly. Primus' white knight for justice."

"Oh." He was coming far slower online than he should. Whole systems and databanks were missing, many worked with reduced efficiency and above everything his own processor was running at a far slower pace than normal. Thoughts floated tenaciously along, barely managing to stay coherent.

He managed to activate his optics, and remembered only afterwards that he was only supposed to have one. Hastily**,** he pushed the memories behind this fact away, far down, and concentrated on the nice realisation that he wasn't in pain and instead in a small, dark room, that he had never seen before.

Which meant it wasn't Soundwave's cell. Relief crashed over him so hard that it hurt for a moment and his optics blurred. It took some time until he got himself under control, but nothing happened during the long seconds in which only his wheezing vents broke the silence. No pain came.

As he finally managed to calm down, his sight cleared. On his right was a completely collapsed wall, having been partly melted away and he involuntarily asked himself how stable the whole building still was. The floor was cluttered with broken pieces that had once been part of a nice apartment, but were now barely recognizable beneath the dust and soot. Mechs had been living here, but the charred walls were evidence of good reasons to move out fast. Windows were non-existent and the only light that penetrated the room came through a rectangular hole in the crumbled wall, which might have been a door long ago. Behind the hole**,** Prowl spotted the sad remains of a staircase.

Just a few feet away from him was Jazz, sitting on a debris heap, leaning on the wall behind it, an unlocked laserpistol casually in his servo. The blue visor flashed up for a moment as he returned the spy's intense gaze.

"What happened?" asked Prowl, and hated how very weak his voice sounded. His voice box was damaged. He shouldn't have been surprised by this fact, and yet he was. He scrutinized Jazz and noticed that the armour of the spy wasn't dark because of the shadows, but because of scorched plates, camouflage and plain dirt. It was this, coupled with Jazz's words earlier that let him blurt out with frail, disbelieving hope: "You saved me?"

He hadn't thought for a second that someone would come for him. That had been a dream, a naive wish for which he had chastised himself in the beginning. Later, the lie had given him much needed comfort.

Jazz gripped his weapon tighter, otherwise changing nothing of his expression. "Maybe."

What kind of answer was that? Wasn't Jazz his colleague, an Autobot? Confused, Prowl tried to stand up, just to ascertain that his arms were chained to a pipe on the right side and a steel post on the left. Memories threatened to overwhelm his thoughts and he tugged violently on his shackles, but they didn't yield. Limited movement. Not again! Maybe he could break them open, or destroy those pipes somehow...

"Calm down, Prowl." Jazz hadn't moved one inch. "Those chains are necessary."

Prowl vented, once, then twice deeply, logic winning the battle. Frustrated and uneasy he let himself fall back to the floor. "Why?"

The saboteur didn't answer. The astroseconds turned into klicks in which the quiet got heavier and heavier. Jazz's silence seemed impenetrable, while behind the visor he dissected every stirring of the tactician.

Prowl broke the optic contact first, staring on the grey floor. He was so tired and simply wanted it to end. Maybe he was saved, maybe not. Were the chains necessary, because the Autobots wanted him on trial as a traitor? After all, he let all those mechs die. Didn't he? But it was nice not to be in pain for once. To be away from Soundwave. How did he come to be here, anyway?

"Prowl," said Jazz finally and if the tactician hadn't known better, he would have thought that the tone of his voice was... gentle. "Soundwave has hacked you."

"I know." As if he could forget this.

Jazz nodded. "Good. He had you for over fifty orns." He looked straight at Prowl. "It's a miracle that we're even having this conversation."

Even if they weren't friends, Prowl knew Jazz. And he knew when Jazz was trying to avoid telling something. But rarely was it useful to call him out on it. Most of the time Jazz simply needed a bit of banter, then he would tell the bad news anyway. So the tactician only said:

"Fifty orns is...very long." He couldn't say if it was longer than he had estimated. Torture had turned everything into an eternity. Was it really over?

"For these kind of things, yes." Jazz stood up, took a step towards Prowl and crouched down. "It means that Soundwave had time not only to hack your systems, but to change them as well." He pressed his lips together for a moment. When he spoke again, he kept all and every emotion from his voice: "It also means that I can't be sure if you're Prowl or just a puppet. If not**,** somewhere within you is a sweet little program that will turn you into a traitor."

Prowl froze. Cold fear gripped his spark. "Jazz..."

"Because of this, I wanted to say sorry, Prowl." Jazz smiled bitterly. "Sorry that I have to hack you." He raised a hand as if to touch the tactician's arm.

Though Prowl flinched violently back. "No!"

"It's necessary, Prowl. And you know it."

For once in his life**,** Prowl was not approachable through logic. Memories swarmed him and let every other consideration vanish in a heavy drum beat of fear, remembered pain and conditioned response. He kicked with his legs, bit, and cursed Jazz in the worst way possible.

Nothing of all of this fazed the trained spy. With cold, professional hands he searched for one battered, barely repaired medical port and held that upper arm still through superior strength. The last orns had left Prowl too weak to be a true danger, especially bound as he was. And Prowl knew this. But he didn't care.

"Sorry," whispered Jazz once more as he ripped the port open.

The pain didn't even let Prowl hesitate for a second. Instead he tried to kick Jazz again, but to no avail. The spy was now sitting next to his shoulder and too far away. But Prowl tried again and again.

With swift movements, a single thin cable struck the port and forced itself inside. Prowl howled. Not because of the pain, but because it happened again and it was _Jazz_. Whom he had trusted. Had liked, even had wanted as a friend. Jazz, who now betrayed him in an inconceivable way.

Data poured into his cortex, stopped by nothing at all. Soundwave had worked hard not only to destroy every single defense, but in the end he had even destroyed the programs that had built the firewalls and created anti-viruses and changed the codes. What Jazz found wasn't an open door into Prowl's very processor, but a burned and broken battlefield, harboring not even the slightest remains of the razed code structures.

Prowl shuddered, fighting against the memories and trying to fight against the invader. Who had no right! But he had lost so much. All he could do was to weave his core programming even tighter around the Autobot data and wait, trembling in horror, anticipating the worst. There was nothing else left.

Though... this was different. Inside of slowly, ever advancing program lines that shattered everything, he felt feathery light touches. Just asking for little pings, not changing one sign of the few programs that still resembled their original version. Mostly they were programs necessary for survival and the movement of the body. Slowly, methodically, the presence flitted from one to one, never closing in, never becoming the storm of 'too much' that Soundwave had been. In fact, it reminded Prowl of a medic, simply checking if his patient was healthy.

Prowl was far from anything that was in the same realm as healthy. But... the memories of medics, of Ratchet, and the stark differences to Soundwave let his terror abide a bit, until his body wasn't screaming anymore. Only shaking and curling into a very tight ball.

His fear spiked again as the presence neared his core programming.

::Will you let me inspect your core programming?:: asked the presence and Prowl suddenly remembered that this was Jazz. Jazz, who was hacking him. Jazz, the Autobot.

::No!:: he shot back. But this closely intertwined, his following thought was near impossible to keep hidden. It was this intimacy that was sought during interfacing. ::But I can't stop you anyway.::

::True.:: Jazz had never been one for sugarcoating things. ::But I would like to have your permission. So far you're clean.:: The presence inched closer, crossing the first very personal programms. ::Did Soundwave enter your core programming?::

::Yes.:: He had. Dozens of times.

::Will you let me enter it?::

'Never' should have been the only right answer. But Prowl was slowly calming down the longer Jazz waited for the permission. He wanted to end as a puppet of Soundwave even less. But was his trust into this spy and saboteur, this liar and killer, this being that he had wanted to call friend, great enough for this? Still, Jazz was waiting, even though Prowl couldn't stop him. He was waiting and asking. Suddenly, Prowl was reminded of Typhern and the fate of its politicians. Jazz had asked him there as well, but had it been a true question or just a trick? What was it now?

::I let you in, if you answer one question truthfully.::

Jazz was surprised. And a tiny slither of data betrayed relief. This close it was difficult to hide such things. To hide the truth. ::Really? Well, ask.::

::When we were both racing to the borders of Typhern and you let me choose whether or not to kill the politicians... if I had said 'no', would you still have destroyed the tower?::

For a long moment, Jazz's presence completely stopped. It was as if watching a deep and dark lead sea. Then, Jazz moved closer still, came far too near for comfort and Prowl tensed, prepared for a hopeless battle – but then the saboteur stopped again.

::No. I wouldn't have and I wouldn't have given the command.:: Suddenly something like regret floated across them. ::I hadn't realised this has bothered you so much.::

Had it bothered him? Yes. And Jazz's answer only brought bittersweet relief and sharp guilt. The saboteur had trusted him, but all those deaths were really on him. He had killed Autobot politicians deliberately. No wonder he had failed later in the battle...

::You know, Prowl, I never thought you of all people would feel this deeply...:: Wonder accompanied these words and Jazz had moved even closer. Before Prowl could answer, Jazz was touching _him. _Gentle, carefully, but oh so intimate.

And it was all so very very wrong. Prowl sobbed in despair as everything came back with a flare of his spark. It was too much. Far too much. And he was so very helpless. Vulnerable. Laid open to be taken.

This time**, **Jazz didn't stop. Just like Soundwave he walked on, touching, entering what was not supposed to be touched and entered. Prowl's thin control that had really been his distrusting, violated sanity shattered amongst the memories and reality, the fact that Soundwave and Jazz, Decepticon and Autobot, made no difference. It shattered, and Prowl fought – uselessly, endlessly, only suffering more for the fact that he didn't give up.

And yet, Jazz, the intruder, the attacker, the enemy, didn't stop. Went deeper and deeper, a spear that knew no mercy.

It tore Prowl apart, and somewhere in his spark, it also burned a belief, leaving only another wound.

Then, for a moment the false-wrong presence stopped, touching something, isolating, raping it. No. No. No. Leave! Without a warning core lines were sliced apart and he screamed as his whole existence disappeared in endless, white pain.

Far away, a sharp command reached at his processor, which shut down its own awareness with resigned eagerness to retread and escape. For ever.

When Prowl came back to reality, he found himself in the destroyed cellar again. This time, his thoughts were clearer and, if possible, his spark hurt even more. In fear he searched for his assailant – whether Jazz or Soundwave he couldn't have said in this moment – and found the saboteur humming at the hole in the wall, cleaning his weapon in the meagre light.

The agent must have noticed Prowl's minimal movements, because he looked up and smiled. "Good morning, recharging beauty."

Panic surged up within Prowl's processor, and before he could do anything else, he was pressing his back against the wall, trying to control his shaking. Jazz didn't behave as if that reaction to him was abnormal. Maybe it wasn't. Prowl didn't know.

Suddenly he realised with surprise that he was able to hold his hands over his spark; there were no shackles around his wrists anymore. Great. For the first time in far too long he wasn't bound. It felt strange. Like a foreign concept or a dream. Obviously he was now considered trustworthy. Funny that it happened only after he had acquired the urge to hurt Jazz as much as he had been hurt.

Jazz was still smiling and slowly standing up. "Don't move too fast yet, your systems are still very tender. My mechs worked for nearly an orn on you just to get you up and moving again. Didn't even touch the damage in your programs."

The word 'programs' was enough to make the tactician flinch. But Prowl refused to show more weakness than that and growled: "No, that was your job, right? To hack me."

"Yes." Jazz walked a few steps closer, but stopped before he was anywhere near Prowl. "To hack you, to check if you're compromised or somehow a true traitor. Luckily, the small programs that Soundwave installed in you were mainly for surveillance and ensuring your weakness. Or you would now be talking to Primus."

That was... a surprise. After what happened to the tactician**, **there should have been dozens of programs, one worse than the other. But later he could ask himself why. He was too busy fighting the fear that Jazz would hack him anew. After all, could he be sure that Jazz had found all of the programs? That once was enough?

"By the way," continued Jazz. "To put the databanks behind your own core programming is a crazy move. I can respect you for it."

Which said much and nothing at all. "It's not as if I had much choice."

He slowly tried to stand up, using the wall to keep his balance, which was seriously compromised. Still no data from his doorwings, a sick feeling entered his tanks. He tried to move them, to see them, to touch them. Nothing. He had no doorwings anymore. It should've surprised him more, but instead it was only the last horrible thing on a long list. He supposed one could get used to anything. Instead he focused on the fact that standing made him feel better, less vulnerable. It cleared is processor and let him push the matter of his non-existent doorwings down and away. "How did you get me out? And where are we?"

Jazz made a sweeping gesture. "This noble abode is north of Tarn, the city state in which you've been held in a high security cell. And to how we got you out..." He shrugged. "Let's just say that at the moment**, **every single surviving deep cover agent in Tarn is travelling directly to Iacon, because their covers have been blown spectacularly."

Of course Jazz would be scarce with information. What had he expected of the master of secrecy? Jazz was allowed to hack him, to see the very codes that made up Prowl, but the tactician wasn't even allowed to hear the details of his own rescue? The sudden anger felt refreshing, like a shower after working near a forge for too long.

"Right." He looked at Jazz coldly. "I wanted to hear how and how many died."

Jazz stilled. "Many have died, Prowl. You know this already."

"Yes, I do." If his balance hadn't been so precarious, he would have taken one very aggressive step towards the spy. "I also know that you're trying to keep something from me."

Jazz sighed. "Seems that at least your stubbornness hasn't changed."

"Jazz."

For a long moment the saboteur was silent, then he made a handvade as if it all didn't matter much. "Alright. I saw how Soundwave took you on that shuttle. Could do nothing alone against all those Cons, so I put a tracker on that flyer. Since then, we've been trying to get you out of Tarn. In the end, we waited until Soundwave left you alone for once and then... we blew up every single energon facility in the city."

Prowl blinked. "Every single one? Shouldn't they be protected?"

"They were. It took a lot of work, but we did it." Jazz shrugged. "In the following commotion**,** my two highest ranked spies entered your cell to guard you against Autobot rescuers... they got you out of that cell and replaced your body with a grey puppet which looks very realistic."

It was a very simplified version of the plan, but it sounded logical. Most Autobots would've accepted the version without hesitation, but then Prowl was the Head Tactician. "That's not all," he said. "Tarn should've had far too many soldiers to make this work. And there is no reason that Soundwave has to leave me for an extended period of time. What did you do?"

"Me? Nothing." Jazz allowed himself a curt smile. "But the Autobots might have retaliated after Typhern and might have attacked Tesarus, while simultaneously bombarding Vos, Tarn and Helex."

Prowl stared. "They've started a large-scale offensive?"

"Yes." Jazz took two measured steps towards him, but Prowl only shuddered, too busy trying to compute the information.

"Why?" The word sounded far more helplessly that the tactician had intended.

"Ever heard about this bloody concept of revenge? The High Council deemed the offensive to have many advantages." The spy's visor got darker. "You were one of the advantages."

Revenge. Of course. The dead of Typhern certainly deserved it, even though they had greyed through his failure. And this was all it came down to in the end – his failure.

"I see." He straightened**.** "I'm not an advantage, I was a possible information leak. This is what we have assassins for – so that they go in and eliminate a threat. Instead you've blown the cover of every spy we had in Tarn, and only Primus knows how many more, and started an offensive that will lead to only more war and death!" He gritted his dentals, trying to swallow the sudden guilt that he had caused that. Instead he let his anger take over and glared at Jazz. "You especially should have known that rescuing me is a dangerous and stupid move! So, what in Primus' name were you thinking?! Why did you sacrifice all those mechs?"

It was rare to see Jazz startled, but he caught himself fast. Anything slow and considerate in his movements vanished, and only left the deadly mech Prowl knew. "Because I'm not you. Because I don't let any Autobots be tortured if I can rescue them. Because I think that the Autobot philosophy is worth sacrifice," spat the saboteur. "And this is the only reason, got it?"

Prowl froze for a moment, remembering their past arguments, their past differences - and now knowing that he was alive because of that difference only. It hurt. With the realisation**, **the anger vanished and only left a spark-deep tiredness, a desire to let all these be over and a detached wondering if Jazz had truly saved him because he was an Autobot... or just because he had wanted to prove to Prowl that he was the better mech.

"You shouldn't have," he repeated**,** resigned.

"Good thing then, that this wasn't your call to make, right?" was the cold answer. Jazz turned and walked back to his weapons. "Let's go. Better not to stay in one place for too long." With precise and practised movements**,** he began to pack.

Prowl followed the mech with his optics, seeing the wisdom in these words. They would be hunted. Gathering his determination, he dared to step away from the wall, his only pitiful security so far. Nothing happened. His balance was still bad, but he could walk without his doorwings. Good.

"We're going back to Iacon?" he asked with slight hope.

"Nope, far too obvious." Jazz grinned. "We're going to Kaon."

* * *

><p>Thankfully this was the last hacking scene. Because I was already asked, yes, from here on, Prowl and Jazz will truly develop their friendship... or perish behind the frontlines. ;) I haven't forgotten this. Also in the next few chapters we discover a few more things about their past.<p>

~silber


End file.
